Hermione's Scribbles
by Crazy Mishka
Summary: A collection of scenes and plot points from several Hermione stories rattling around in my head. She's my favourite leading lady from HP, and I want to share. :)
1. The Pack--Harmony

Don't own, don't profit: don't sue.

A Herm-Harry story kind of. It was supposed to be. It grew into something on its own. It's now more of a pack story...

...

...

A lot of people knew a lot of nothing about Werewolves.

Remus ruminated on this fact as he pulled his hood down and fought against the wind in muggle London.

He well knew that even his friends were suspicious of him. That was why they'd not invited him over in the last few months. That was why his invitation to meet up was denied the last few times. That was why all his letters had been responded to with the minimum of politeness.

Remus Lupin was a werewolf. And it was this that made him somehow less trustworthy. And yet he alone knew that he was most trustworthy—now at his majority his wolf and he were bonding more and more, able to create their own pack rather than feel tense as a young loner.

Lone wolves were unnatural—so they howled and acted out and were terrified and terrifying.

Sad fact was that, now that he could claim his friends as pack and protect them better, he couldn't. They hadn't seen him since his 21st birthday.

He growled and his gold eyes flashed, he ducked further into his scarf and dodged a puddle.

As much as that betrayal hurt him—he would bide his time and wait like the good dog he was. He coughed to recover from the bitter thought.

…

And he never recovered. His friends were gone, Sirius was the true traitor, and he had no clue where the little cub had ended up.

Without any recourse he made his way through the muggle world, picking up odd jobs and eking out a living as the bitterness grew in him. Without a pack, and without anything to tie him down, Remus was aloof and resentful.

Dodging his way through traffic around Trafalgar square—avoiding the public transport system for the better, he'd learned that lesson—he abruptly stopped with no consideration for the other pedestrians around him.

Sniffing discreetly his eyes narrowed, the wolf in him pacing.

No.

Yes.

Couldn't be.

Spinning in place he darted gold eyes about, searching. There. The scent was discreet, but it was pup. _Almost_ pup.

Confused and wary, Remus Lupin wove through the foot traffic. Following the scent of the Potter cub he would have claimed as pack if he knew where he was. This scent was just like it, but slightly off. He followed it with suspicion and hope.

And he still wasn't prepared.

His eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat.

Pup's mate.

The little girl had impossibly huge and long hair; magic seemed to live in it. His lips quirked and he took a few steps closer, hiding his attention in the press of the lunchtime crowd. Remus smiled as the little girl played with the small umbrella in her grasp, otherwise very still.

Then she looked up, and somehow her eyes found him.

His lungs hurt—the wolf howled and growled.

Human eyes wouldn't see it, but his did. He saw the bruising under carefully applied makeup, smelt the pain under the masking chemicals of muggle cosmetics.

Her eyes were amber just like the gemstones, a bewitching color that seemed to glow. Her magic. And she did smell like pup, but she smelled like rain and earth too while pup smelled like lightning and sky. Complement.

A woman turned from the newsstand and grabbed pup's mate by the shoulder, turning her to start walking.

Pup's mate dropped her eyes quickly and stumbled with the woman's quick pace.

Remus scowled and hid in the crowd, following.

They ended up in an old and rich part of town.

His scowl kept on deepening. This family was well off—two very nice cars, landscaped yard, old heirloom furniture visible through the windows. Old money evident in the house and the clothing they wore. They were certainly well off enough to treat their daughter better.

Pup's mate quietly walked out of the house, sitting on the steps with a book. She opened it dutifully, but Remus could see she wasn't reading. No, she was turning the pages and her magic was skimming the inked words.

A little impressed he rocked back on his heels.

Amber eyes found his again.

Remus blinked.

The child dimpled in a brief smile before ducking her head. The lady of the house came out, huffing at her daughter.

"Hermione," she snapped.

The little amber-eyed girl that smelled like pup looked up. "Mother?"

"Get inside."

Hermione hesitated but then quickly complied when the woman glowered.

Remus' eyes went cold, staring right at the woman who added fear to the little mate's scent. The woman must have felt his gaze, for she looked over her shoulder before closing the door. Her eyes narrowed upon spotting him, obviously taking in his worn clothes and unkempt appearance. He hadn't shaved that morning.

She sneered before closing the door firmly and Remus heard the lock slide home.

No matter. He was a wolf, and he was magic.

…

Not even two full weeks of watching and he already hated the elder Grangers. He'd heard every neighbor on the block praise the young couple for their hard work—how they'd opened their own practice and accomplished so much for their age.

But he saw Pup's mate.

And she had new bruises. Often. One day she even walked with a limp, a hesitation as she discreetly tried to press against her hip and settle on the porch to read.

Apparently it was a common habit for her—she didn't like being in the house.

Remus Lupin could easily guess at the reason for that. Every time one of her parents came out to retrieve her they were angry, barely keeping up their polite façade in his werewolf senses.

He heard how the two adults treated her, what Hermione learned from her parents in their tones and words. Once he'd even heard the beating, his wolf perking and yowling at the noises: ready to invade and rescue and teach a lesson.

He'd barely stilled the urge, instead asking around discreetly and using some magic.

He'd get cub's mate safe.

….

The police and social workers calmly walked out of the house, the two Granger's angrily being escorted to the patrol car. Amidst the shocked gazes of their neighbors they kept up their angry stoicism.

But Remus had heard their earlier shouts and arguments. Their justification: as parents it was their right to raise their child as they wished, and didn't the officers know how much trouble a child was in their busy lives? They hadn't mentioned anything about magic, but Remus had heard them once scolding Hermione for some magical outburst.

Hermione watched all the adults leave, sitting on the porch again. The social worker grabbed her hand and pulled her up, hardly paying attention to the wary child.

Remus scowled.

Moony growled.

Soon. He'd rescue pup's mate and keep her safe.

No adult would ever ignore her or abuse her again.

…

All his planning and preparation hadn't prepared him for the reality of a skittish little girl who's magic was too strong to be believed. It told her things.

"Is this my room?" she asked softly.

It wasn't much, but he could smell the joy that rose up from her. It confused him—his home was nothing to boast about. Compared to her previous lodgings she should feel sad and angry. With the upheaval of her life she should be sullen and withdrawn.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You're welcome."

"Mum says to always use my manners," she offered as if that could explain away the confusion she saw on his face. She was too sharp for such a young child.

"It's not much," he responded, trained to be ashamed.

She smiled, her amber eyes sparkling. "I like it."

"I'm glad."

"Will he get his own room too?"

"What?"

"Your pup. He doesn't like his cupboard."

…

Remus swallowed, watching Hermione kick her feet as she read a book. She was so tiny. Her hair seemed to be larger than her.

He was hesitant and stiff around her, having never really had the opportunity around children—what with his curse. His wolf wanted to cuddle her up.

It was a strange urge.

She looked up at him and blinked. She didn't speak much, had been as stiff and polite as a mini adult all through their exchanges. It made the wolf angry—that stiffness and politeness had been beaten into her. He wanted to see her playful and loud and energetic.

He wanted her to be a pup.

Sometimes he wondered if she actually liked reading, or went to it as her only recourse when her parents had forbidden everything else in their stressful lives.

"Mr. Remus?"

"Let's go out to the park."

…

Remus mopped his hand down his face as he stared at the bill, doing some quick calculations in his head. He would have to approach the goblins. The Beings held nothing against him, and appreciated his talents.

He would find some odd jobs.

But he would have to go to the wizarding world—where everyone he didn't trust could see him. Might follow him. Maybe find pup's mate.

He growled.

Because of his nature he had to learn all about dark creatures—they were most often his companions. He was very good with curses and dark magic and defense. The Goblins could surely use a man with his skills and senses. And he was sure he could protect pup's mate.

He nodded, making his decision and putting down the papers flat on the table.

"Mister?"

"Mimi," Remus responded with the ridiculous name the wolf insisted on.

Hermione hadn't objected yet.

Her eyes darted to the papers, Remus felt her magic swell and then collapse back into her. "I'm sorry."

"And why are you apologizing?"

"You could've let me stay at the orphanage."

Remus' heart clenched and the wolf snarled. She was pack. But he didn't know how to explain that to her just yet. "I couldn't have."

She just blinked at him.

…

Remus had encouraged her to go play in the park.

He regretted that.

She came back with her chin high and a scrape on her cheek. The smell of her blood and barely suppressed tears made the wolf howl.

The man made a considering noise.

Mimi clutched to him with a small squeak when he swung her up to carry her to the bathroom. There he settled her on the counter and tended her wound.

When he was done he swung her down and smoothed back her hair, checking her for other injuries.

All he got was her forthright amber stare—her magic glowing in her eyes.

"Biscuits?" he asked.

She took his hand quietly.

…

He jolted out of bed and raced to her room, hearing her scream soften into small hiccups and muffled sobs.

Wolf steps—lunging ground eating strides—took him right to her bed where her teary face peeked from above a pillow she was pressing over her mouth to muffle the noise of her distress.

Murmuring soothingly he settled on the edge of her bed, reaching to push her hair away from sticking to her tears. She still sobbed gently, her large wet eyes on him.

He stared at her.

Then she started bawling in earnest, discarding the pillow to crawl to him and curl up in his lap. This close he could discern her words as she started to whisper between her gasps and sobs.

"I'll be good!" she promised. "Don't leave me too!" she pleaded. "I didn't mean to!" she apologized.

He soothed her, the wolf growled to soothe her too.

When she'd become more restful in his embrace he looked up—and he found the reason for her distress. Her whole room was destroyed; her magic had fought while she was in her night terrors.

The wolf and the man held her closer.

…

Hermione was much clingier after that barrier broke down—Remus thought she was afraid he really would leave her now that he saw how her magic raged so much.

He wouldn't. He knew why.

She was pup's mate—and she and her magic were connected to her other half. It would be hard to control that when they were so far apart—when pup wasn't in the best circumstances.

From what he'd pieced together pup was being abused, on top of Hermione's own abuse and their bond that meant Mimi's magic wouldn't settle until Harry was by her side.

Remus froze; the wolf started a low satisfied growl that rose in volume. Remus smirked.

…

Hermione clung to his hand as they walked up the street. She wasn't letting her exhaustion show though he could smell the beginnings of it.

They'd spent the last week wandering around suburbs, exploring.

Using the bond the pup's shared to try and find Harry.

Remus admired the little mate's strength even as he rumbled in displeasure. She wouldn't admit to being tired—somehow she knew they were seeking out pup.

He swung her up into his arms.

Mimi sighed and rested her head against him trustfully, her thick head of hair soft against his neck. Remus swallowed and turned his eyes forward.

…

Remus stopped as pup's mate did. She stared at the unremarkable looking house—unremarkable save for the perfect roses. Hermione stared at that rose bush with a disproportionate interest.

The wolf started to growl and pace.

Remus cleared his throat and gently squeezed her hand.

She blinked her amber eyes and looked up at him dolefully, not moving from where her feet were planted.

He nodded his head.

The duo quietly strolled up the walk, and Remus pressed the bell.

Then they waited.

The wolf strained, ears perked, listening to the sounds of the house deciding who would answer the door.

Remus' breath left him when a young boy opened the door and he stared into familiar green eyes.

_Pup._

A screech drew his attention to a slender woman—her eyes near popping out of her horse like face as she pointed a shaky finger at him.

Ah, Petunia. Their one and only meeting had not gone well. He grinned predatorily.

The woman's babbling drew her husband and son to the door, but in the nosy neighborhood they could only invite the two strangers in or risk rumors.

And the wolf and the man laid down some ground rules and got their way.

…

Remus growled pleasantly as he watched Pup zoom about the house. Though Harry had been in just as appalling circumstances as the little mate he'd seemed to recover easily.

Acted like any pup safe in the den—playful and energetic and loud.

The wolf loved it.

Wolf gold eyes turned to Pup's mate, his heart hurting to see her watching Pup with an affection he was sure was in his eyes.

Indulgence.

Why should another pup have such emotion?

He tugged up his trousers and crouched at her side, taking a brief glance over her book and the way her magic was slipping away from the pages. Her fingers trembled where they held the spine.

"Mimi," he murmured softly.

She swallowed and blinked.

They stared at each other for a moment. Remus unsure about the emotion in her eyes and the child silent as was her way. Sometimes he thought he saw words pressing against her, her magic swelling in excitement, but she always reined herself in.

While he had somehow managed to cure her fear of being physically hit he hadn't been able to get her to open up.

"Am I to leave?" she inquired on a wobbly whisper though he could see how she tried to be brave.

"Why would you need to leave?"

Her face started to crumple. "You have your pup now."

Remus blinked and drew back, staring horrified down at pup's mate.

Amber eyes cut down to stare at her book, running her fingers over the printed words.

"Mimi. No."

She hiccupped and her eyes turned back up to him. She bit her bottom lip hard when it quivered.

Remus drew her into his arms, shushing her when she fought slightly and whimpered. He closed his eyes against the burn in them and took a deep breath. Wolf growled and paced.

Far too sharp a child—far too ready to be discarded.

"I did not rescue you so I could find pup."

She choked on a sob and then whined.

Wolf howled and growled menacingly. Remus cleared his throat to make more human noises when his wolf was pressing to declare war and hunt down her parents. "You are just as much my pup as Harry is."

Hermione sniffled and scrubbed her nose on his shoulder.

"I am glad you helped me find pup, and we will all live together."

"That sounds nice," she sobbed into his shoulder before really breaking down—clutching on to him and babbling out apologies for being a bother.

Wolf soothingly growled to her, and Remus let the rumble build in his chest.

…

Remus paused, setting down the last dish to watch Harry approach Hermione. The two pups had kind of just existed around each other. He wanted to see what cub had planned.

Harry grinned and pulled his arm from behind his back.

Hermione flinched.

But Harry offered her the flower without seeming to notice. Wolf growled but settled quickly. Pup was handling it.

Mimi blushed and accepted the flower cautiously.

Harry, if that was possible, beamed brighter and sat right beside her. And the pup started to babble, random things.

Little mate started to listen, started to respond, and then she started to babble back.

Remus Lupin was a man of few words—constantly having to filter his wolfish reactions and thoughts meant that he often didn't get to voice them in time. And as he leaned against the doorjamb and watched the two pups warm up to each other and talk he thought it was a shame he didn't babble as easily as they did.

If only so they could be so at ease around him too.

…

"Mr. Remus?"

"Mr. Moony?"

"Yes?"

"Can we go to the park?"

"…yes."

Harry beamed and grabbed his hand, heading for the door. Mimi wasn't as energetic, but happily took his other hand too.

"What are you two doing?"

Mimi immediately pulled her hand away. Pup just looked up at him—"We're going to the park."

Remus quietly put his shoes on as well. And while they were walking he deliberately picked up Hermione's hand in his large one.

She walked closer to his leg.

…

Remus and Moony slowly learned how to interact with the pups, and the pups slowly started to act more and more like pups—as if they had needed his permission to do so in the first place, as if they took theirs cues from him.

Half the time he forgot they came from abusive homes—then with his wolf hearing he caught their heart breaking adult-like conversations. They were frank with each other, and it both hurt and prided him that they noticed how different he was.

Hurt because they had never known an adult they could trust before. Pride because they knew he was an adult they could finally trust.

He swallowed hard and Wolf growled.

They were hearing those whispers now.

"Do you think he would?"

"Maybe. He gets angry a lot."

Remus froze.

"But he's not angry _at_ us."

"I guess. But you know that doesn't mean anything."

The pups were silent for a second, then Hermione's meek voice sounded. "I…I like him."

"Me too."

"Let's show him."

Remus set down his newspaper; the wolf in him perked its ears and sat at attention. Sure enough the pups rounded the corner, stopping abruptly when they saw him waiting.

Hermione swallowed and shrank down a bit.

Harry stalked forward with false confidence, his shoulders back but his eyes flicking everywhere.

Remus stared at them when they stopped in front of him.

"We're sorry!" Hermione immediately caved and squeaked out, starting to hyperventilate.

Harry grabbed his little mate and pulled her to his side. "We didn't mean to, it was an accident," he spoke forcefully, eyes daring him to punish them.

"Before I respond, what exactly are we on about?"

Mimi bit her lip and tucked her chin down; Harry scowled. But both pups held out their left hands.

Remus' breath caught, and if a wolf could physically laugh he was sure that's what Moony was doing right now. "And how did you get these?"

"Harry gave me a flower," Mimi squeaked out.

"And I told her I'd never leave her," Harry said forcefully, almost glaring at Remus as he pulled little mate closer.

"And I told him the same!" Hermione said earnestly, turning into pup's side.

"And," Harry swallowed and blushed, "she kissed my cheek."

Remus' eyes started to sparkle.

"Then our arms tingled, and we got these," a blushing Hermione added as she ducked her eyes away and curled right into Harry.

Wolf howled.

Remus felt a smile twitch on his lips, then his breath started to shake—the laughter broke out and grew loud.

"Sir?" Harry asked tentatively, hugging Hermione to him.

Remus, managing to control his mirth down to chuckles, moved from his chair to kneel in front of the pups. "You two…" he chuckled, he couldn't continue. Wolf was barking and howling happily, running in tight little circles. Remus was grinning unrepentantly.

He reached out to pull them into a hug—both flinched. Remus' expression sobered but he continued pulling both little pups into his arms. He should do it more often; get them used to it.

Never would he hurt them.

They were his pups, his pack.

"Congratulations," he whispered over their heads, nuzzling them. Wolf's growl rumbled in his chest, and Hermione squeaked before hesitantly pressing her ear against his heart. "You two are the most adorable pups a wolf could have."

Harry grinned up at him, all teeth and big green eyes.

…

The magic bond the pups had accidentally sealed gave them a few surprises—Remus and wolf watched with good humor as the pups slowly realized that their bond meant they would never feel alone again.

When Hermione had a nightmare Harry somehow apparated right into her bed.

When Harry sprained his ankle playing in the yard Hermione started crying and grabbed her own ankle—she was in the study and had no clue what had happened.

Many other such incidences occurred—but no longer did their magic burst from them and wreak havoc. Which meant the pups no longer cowered when they had accidental magic incidences—because they just didn't happen as often or as powerfully.

Wolf and man hated when they cowered from him.

And now that the pups no longer feared their magic he slowly started to explain it to them. They stopped thinking they were in trouble every time he brought it up.

And Hermione, with her whispering magic and scary brilliance, made his heart stop. "So our magic bonded us? Like your wolf claimed us?"

Remus sat down heavily—good thing the chair wasn't pushed back too far. Wolf yelped in his own surprise, extending his snout forward to scent the pup. His pup. His pups.

Harry blinked and pushed his glasses up his nose, walking up to them and taking Mimi's hand.

He cleared his throat, "It's a little different." His voice still sounded strangled.

Hermione ducked in closer to Harry, and the pup extended his arm around her.

Closing his eyes Remus took a deep breath. He opened them to stare right at his pups—they didn't look too comfortable, but they hadn't taken the chance to sneak away either. That was good.

"My wolf…has taken you as pups. Your magic…you two are soul mates. Friends or more—your magic decided you are perfect for each other."

"I have to be perfect?" Hermione whispered in a sullen voice.

Harry turned and pulled her right into him, his little arms strongly wrapped around her. "You are perfect."

Hermione sniffled, "But mum said that I—"

The wolf's snarl escaped before Remus could control it.

Both pups gasped and turned to him, jumping slightly.

He cleared his throat. "Your mum lied to you—a lot. I don't want you to listen to anything she said."

"And my papa too?" Hermione whispered questioningly.

"Yes."

Harry chirped in, "My relatives lied a lot! But I _knew_ they were wrong!"

Remus smiled as Mimi turned to Pup and they started to comfort each other in their babbling way—holding hands, hugging and using children's words to have adult conversations.

Man and Wolf could see how powerful the children were—but Harry knew because his magic was all instincts, Hermione struggled because her magic was all thoughts. This was why Harry had recovered so well from his abusive home—he'd never believed. But Hermione had—because her parents had used words against her.

Wolf huffed and sat, tilting his head as he examined the children.

Remus agreed—they were recovering nicely.

…

"Mr. Remus?"

"Yes," Remus lowered his book and looked into inquisitive amber eyes.

Harry's green eyes popped up on the other side of the recliner.

"Why do you know so much about magic?"

He put the book away. "There's a school for magic—you'll get invitation letters when you turn eleven."

"Did my parents go there?"

"Yes."

"Did you know them?"

"Yes." Remus swallowed.

"You were friends," Mimi said softly.

Remus closed his eyes, struggling between bitter feelings of betrayal and nostalgia. "Yes."

"I'm sorry," Pup said, patting his arm.

Remus laughed—a small bitter laugh. "Thank you."

…

Remus sipped his coffee and finished his report for the Goblins, shuffling through the parchment absently. He was more focused on the pups' conversation.

"Mr. Remus doesn't lie."

"But everyone else does."

"Not you."

Pup laughed, "Or you."

There was a pause in their conversation.

"So should we just ask then?" Mimi's voice trembled.

Remus heard them shuffling, probably hugging. Then Harry's voice whispered, "We should ask."

Remus put the papers down and waited for the pups, Wolf straining forward and perking his ears to hear every part of their approach.

The pups came in cautiously, holding hands and peeking up at him through their messy hair.

…

Remus stood straight as he encountered the Weasley family. He gave them a cordial nod, but tried to hasten on his way.

It was not to be so.

Molly Weasley was still as boisterous and smothering as she'd ever been. The wolf hated it. He didn't trust her. She didn't trust them—they could smell it.

They had _heard_ it.

"It's been simply ages since I've seen you around, what have you been up to?"

"Up to? I've been working."

Her brown eyes regarded him thoroughly. "I haven't heard anything around Diagon."

Remus merely inclined his head.

She scowled. "Well you obviously need a different job—you're all skin and bones. Come to lunch on Sunday."

"I won't be able to make it," Remus murmured.

…

What was Dumbledore up to?

It wasn't until Molly's forceful and unnecessary (and rejected) invite that the old Headmaster had sent him a letter. As neither had contacted him in the last eight years it was a suspicious circumstance.

The wolf growled and paced.

Dumbledore wasn't any sort of Alpha, and the wolf hated how he manipulated and kept information to himself. It was bad strategy for a pack.

Had he perhaps used Molly to try to get in contact with Remus first? Remus, though part of the original Order, had been on the fringes: under suspicion even by his friends.

He did not attend all meetings. He did not have contact with all the members.

They had communicated with him mostly by owl.

Pressing his tongue into his slightly elongated canine Remus pondered.

He might have to go sleuth.

…

Remus came back furious.

Pup's magic felt it. Mimi's magic heard it.

He struggled to rein in his growls and magic, not willing to scare the pups. He'd fix this—this _wrong_. And he would not make them fear him.

But they didn't.

Harry took his hand and pressed his nose and forehead into Remus' arm. The wolf choked. That was the way of pups—how they comforted their alpha. It was enough to get Wolf and Man more aware of their surroundings, grounding them.

And then Mimi went and hugged his waist, nuzzling into his stomach.

Remus let out what might be considered a laugh as the wolf completely settled down, making the growl that alphas used to soothe pups. In appreciation for their affection he stooped down and lifted both pups up to him, nuzzling into their hair as he used his wolf strength to hug them.

Mimi sighed against his shoulder where she rested her head, and Harry blinked his stunning eyes and grinned.

Both hadn't flinched.

He sat in the chesterfield with both pups, simply cuddling in a wolf pile.

He'd missed this.

Wolf growled in agreement.

…

Not too satisfied with the Order and its members, Remus used what he'd found sleuthing to perform some subterfuge. It was easy—because he knew that rat better than anyone else.

It was a good thing he hadn't accepted the invitation to lunch—because then Wormtail would have skittered away.

Now the rat was being hunted, and the traitor didn't even know it.

Wolf growled happily over the hunt, a menacing sound. Remus echoed it willingly.

Sneaking in and out of the Burrow, replacing Wormtail with a rat carefully magiced to appear exactly the same as his old _friend_, was ridiculously easy.

Dumbledore obviously had no concerns about security, if his favorite light family was so unprotected.

Wolf and Man struggled together—both knowing there was a plan, a good plan, to follow. But the betrayer was in their hands. It would be so easy…everyone already thought he was dead.

He huffed and pulled his hood down further, slinking through the shadows and crowds of Diagon to the pillars of the Goblin bank. The guards' black eyes followed him, met his own feral gaze easily.

Goblin grins matched the werewolf's pointy smile.

…

He risked picking up the edition of the Prophet the next day. Sure enough, there was a big production over how the Ministry had responded to rumors of Peter Pettigrew being spotted alive—even squinting his eyes and reading it three times Remus could barely find mention of the Goblin involvement.

All for the better: thanks to their prejudice no one would ever investigate and discover the actions of one werewolf.

Mimi's small hand carefully pulled on his arm, adjusting his angle on the newspaper so she could read it with her magic.

Remus' moustache twitched when the hairs on his arm and neck stood up. He was still getting used to that feeling.

"So you're safe?"

He choked and then chuckled, pulling Mimi into his side to hug her and kiss the crown of her hair. "You are such a smart pup—yes I'm safe."

Harry came charging around the corner, a towel tied around his neck like a cape. He struck a heroic pose—"I have a mission!"

Mimi laughed and snuggled into Remus.

The man and the wolf smiled and wondered how they would ever hide anything from these two—their very magic made them hyper inquisitive and aware. It would be best he was always honest with them—so they never doubted him and worked around him.

"What mission is this?" he questioned.

"I," Harry said seriously, "have to make Mimi laugh."

Mimi squealed and jumped, ready to run away.

But Remus thought this was a splendid mission, and held her to his side so Harry could pounce and start a tickle fight.

There was a lot of laughter.

…

Remus sucked in a sharp breath when he opened the door.

Old wounds, festering for years, ached when he looked on the familiar face.

Familiar but so different; Sirius Orion Black was a damaged man.

"Moony," Sirius rasped out.

"How did you find me?"

Sirius blinked and swallowed—an obviously painful swallow as the wolf watched it travel down his throat. "It's been a long time—but Padfoot still recognizes the alpha."

Remus rocked back on his heels, still holding the door half closed.

Laughter rang out behind him.

Sirius blinked and made to peer around the wolf.

They growled at him.

Their old friend snapped to attention, focusing on Remus. Sirius sighed, "I would like to talk about this over tea. If you would."

Remus narrowed his feral eyes. "Don't talk about _anything_ you see here with _anyone_. Understand."

Sirius nodded his head, looking tired and bedraggled.

Remus turned and walked into the townhouse. "They didn't give you potions?"

Sirius closed the door behind him—Remus heard the locks turn and nodded his head. Good. The old dog was still concerned with security.

"I did get some potions, along with recompense for the years in that hell house."

"You didn't take them."

"They'll knock me out—nowhere safe to do that."

Remus swallowed and the wolf stopped growling. Padfoot had come to them to watch over him. The dog honestly still felt the pack bond.

But the house was quiet—too quiet. The pups felt the newcomer, were uncertain.

"We have a few more additions to the pack."

Sirius grinned lopsidedly, still looking exhausted and pitiful. "You old dog; where's the missus?"

Remus glowered. "There is no missus. You know no witch would touch a wolf."

Sirius flicked his eyes away and swallowed again.

Remus sighed. He knew Sirius was trying to get back to their old camaraderie, joking around; but Remus still had bitter wounds. But as alpha, he had to take care of his pack. And Sirius had been the closest part of his pack so long ago—he'd been Beta.

But the pups took priority.

"Somehow Harry ended up with Lily's sister and her family."

Sirius choked and then growled. And Remus and Wolf smiled. Despite being weak and beaten, Sirius' growl was all danger. Good.

"I managed to find him last year."

The growl choked off. Sirius' grey eyes looked at him soberly—both thankful and yet horrified. "How bad was it?"

Remus turned away and finished walking to the kitchen. There he set the kettle to boil and got out the tea.

"Bad enough," he finally managed.

Sirius had been the only Marauder to wait while Remus reined in the wolf. Remus was reminded now of how close they were, and thankful that Sirius had remembered.

Wolf and Man were too angry to manage anything else, and it had taken that pause for Remus to manage human words.

Sirius still waited.

"Pup's recovering well—only has some tells now."

"Good." Sirius swallowed again. "Good," he said more softly.

Remus sat with the tea, grabbing some biscuits for a plate.

Then the two old friends regarded each other soberly.

"Where have you been?" Sirius inquired carefully.

Remus scowled. "Working odd jobs—muggle and Goblin. Had no one since that night."

Sirius cut his eyes away, understanding that Remus had no one before that night as well.

Remus wouldn't agitate old wounds. "How long have you been out?"

"A week—had some fancy hearing at the Ministry as soon as they pulled me out. Real piece of politics it was—and Dumbledore showed up." Sirius' eyes turned hard, and he looked at Remus carefully. "He asked me about Pup."

Now that explained some things. "He tried to contact me a while back—a few months after I got Pup."

Sirius scowled. "Fixed Location Monitoring Charms? That's excessive for a child not his own."

Remus rolled his shoulders to release some tension—"That would make sense. If Harry wasn't at the place under the monitoring charm after a designated length of time he'd be alerted. You were the godfather, but in prison. He couldn't contact you without tarnishing his name. And he didn't contact me before."

"He wanted to use you to track down Pup."

The wolf bared his teeth, and Remus' smile was all wolf. "He got the Weasley's involved in trying to earn my loyalty. But I still smell her disgust."

Sirius tossed his head, "They never did get it."

Remus growled. "Sometimes you didn't either."

Sirius cut his eyes away. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Remus swallowed, Wolf extended his snout towards their pack mate.

The two men stared at each other over the table.

Then Pup walked into the room cautiously, eyeing the stranger and standing by Remus' chair.

Remus pushed his chair out and turned to Pup. "Did you need something?" he asked softly, his alpha growl under the words.

Pup turned his green eyes to him. "Can we have some snacks?"

"Certainly." Remus stood and went to the cupboards, starting the kettle again. He quickly made a platter of biscuits and cut apples, and set the tea to steep. Then he turned and leaned against the counter to watch.

Mimi was hidden in the shadows of the door, her eyes taking in the whole room. He felt her magic brush against everyone carefully.

Harry blinked and tilted his head. "I know you."

Sirius swallowed. "Hello Pup."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I _do_ know you."

A tremulous smile warped over Padfoot's face—a broken dingy thing compared to what it used to be. But hopeful. "I was a friend of your father's. A friend of Remus here."

"My magic misses you." Harry said simply.

…

Remus huffed and sighed as he left Sirius on the couch—carefully picking up all the potion bottles the man had emptied. There were still many left. Now that the drama of their reunion was ebbing Remus felt pity and anger well in his soul—pity for his pack mate and anger for everyone else.

Sirius was just as poorly used as Remus had been.

There was no mistaking the purpose of some of these potions—and Remus was thankful the one that _softened_ memories had not been used. Padfoot was stronger than that.

The old dog would be out of it for a while, if the concentration of the sleeping potion was any indication.

A loud rumbling noise filled the room.

Remus paused, Wolf blinking and tilting his head. Then the man chuckled.

They had forgotten how bad Sirius' snoring was.

Harry and Mimi quietly came down the stairs, their empty plate and cups in hand. Both of them blinked astonished at the racket the stranger was making, but dutifully put their dishes in the sink before coming to investigate.

Harry walked right up to the couch, even risking poking Sirius in the nose. Remus snickered from where he watched. The pup was obviously fascinated—Remus and Moony wondered if maybe there was more to this instinctual memory of Padfoot.

Hermione was much more cautious, staying well out of reach in the off chance their houseguest would awake.

Remus sighed and watched his family adjust to this new dynamic.

…

Remus was tidying up his parchments to owl them to Gringott's when he heard the rest of the pack in the drawing room. Furrowing his brow he abandoned his task and walked to the door.

Harry was shuffling, tugging at his sleeve cuffs.

Sirius had simply asked if it was too hot for such long shirts. Remus hadn't noticed that both children were wearing clothes that covered up their marks.

"If Harry wants to wear long sleeves that's what he'll do," Hermione said stiffly. "You can't tell him to do anything else, he's his own person. So leave him alone."

"My aren't you a bossy little know it all?" Sirius teased.

Remus closed his eyes as Hermione stiffened and stuck her chin up. Harry glowered and moved to Mimi's side.

Sirius didn't understand.

Hermione swallowed and swiftly turned, darting up the stairs to her room where she slammed the door.

Pup stood there uncertain, but then he clenched his hand over his chest and followed Mimi.

Sirius blinked and turned to Remus.

The wolf growled and the man sighed. Gesturing to the chairs the two elders sat.

"Mimi comes from a bad home too."

Sirius swallowed, but still didn't get it. Padfoot waited.

"Her parents…had very stressful lives. And they took it out on her. She wasn't allowed to talk back, or do anything without their permission. And then her magic developed and it is made of thoughts and words. So understand that what you _say _is very important to Hermione."

Padfoot sat back heavily in his chair with a great sigh, mopping one hand down his face. "I'll wait a bit then go talk with her then. But why were they so defensive?" Sirius swallowed hard—"There aren't…marks are there?"

Remus snorted, choking back a laugh because with Sirius' own family background that was a sobering question. It was just ironic. "No, thankfully they are not marked by their home lives. In fact I think their magic is responsible for that too. But they are marked."

Sirius glowered at him.

Remus leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands flat on the coffee table. "The reason I found Mimi, Sirius, is because she smells like Pup. You haven't been Padfoot here yet, but you'll smell it too."

"What?"

"I was walking in London, and I thought it _was_ Pup at first. I thought I'd finally found him. But then I actually saw her. She's Pup's mate."

"Remus," Sirius managed, but he looked lost.

_A good alpha explains_. Remus nodded with the wolfish thought. "So I followed Mimi home with her mum. And I watched for a few weeks. It was a stifling hard environment for Mimi, so I got social services involved, except they weren't treating her very well either. So I pulled a few strings and adopted her."

"She helped me find Harry because she is connected to him, and somehow they sealed their bond. They both have mating marks on their wrists. I'm not sure why they're hiding them from you, but given how adults have treated them before it might take a while for them to warm up to you."

Sirius swallowed. Then he barked out a laugh. "Potter men—they always find their soul mates early."

Remus allowed a slow grin to form on his own face.

…

Sirius did talk to Hermione later. Mimi didn't quite warm up to Sirius, but she didn't take offense every time he joked around now. It was a start. Remus well remembered how long it took her to trust him—and now that she didn't need someone to save her from night terrors or the children at the park Sirius didn't have an easy in.

Wolf was glad for that—it meant Sirius'd treasure it all the more when Mimi finally accepted him. Remus agreed.

Harry forgave easily—but that was because his magic was all instincts and emotions. Words weren't too important to him; he joked around easily with Sirius.

But both pups still wore long sleeved shirts.

…

Sirius received an owl during breakfast. The two pups stared fascinated at the intelligent ball of feathers—Moony growled playfully at it but Remus didn't voice the sound.

Padfoot finished the letter and folded it back up, setting it aside carefully. His sober grey eyes than raised to his. "It's from the Weasley matriarch."

Remus' hands clenched on the arms of his chair.

"Who is she?" Mimi asked softly, carefully looking at Sirius from under her lashes and bangs.

Sirius tried a small smile for her, but it was obviously stained. Remus watched both the children brace themselves for a lie. "She's an old friend—been a few years since we were in contact."

Harry scowled.

Wolf huffed out a displeased breath and lay down, turning his head away from Sirius to watch the pups.

Mimi nibbled on her lower lip and ducked her head slightly, still eyeing Sirius with her amber gaze. Harry was still scowling, but he shuffled so his chair slid a bit closer to Mimi and he could take her hand.

"What does she want," Remus finally asked tiredly.

Sirius flicked his eyes to the pups before responding, "She invited me over for dinner."

"You know he'll be behind the scenes, that family is deep in his schemes."

Sirius started to get a mad glint in his eye—his Black heritage giving him the genetics for recklessness and a slight mania showing clearly. "Well, maybe we should turn the tables on them? Let's see what they're up to." With a flourish he set to responding to the letter, attaching it to the owl with a manic grin.

As the strange owl flew away Remus considered wards—they had a year left until Hogwarts, and it looked like things were stirring up. "Don't mention a thing about the pups." He stood and left the room.

Sirius sputtered behind him, pushing his chair back and rushing to follow.

"What is that supposed to mean?! I know that the pups need to be hidden!"

Remus sent cold eyes over his shoulder as he made his way into the den, noticing the two pups holding each other and peering out from the kitchen with worried expressions. Sirius needed to calm down.

Remus sat down in his chair, flexing his fingers and waiting for Sirius to settle.


	2. Wolf Heart--Hermione Fenrir

A Hermione-Fenrir story that is slow in coming. I was exhausted with all those Fenrir stories where they scare and frighten Hermione yet somehow she is still in love/lust with him and they are mates. I don't like them. So I got the idea to write a strictly werewolf story where Fenrir has to learn to soften his manner for a skittish Hermione.

...

Victorious howls split the night air. The females wagged their tails and gathered at the edge of the woods, eager to greet the hunters on their success. And to feast!

A golden colored wolf edged around the excited females, tail hung between her legs and a slight crouch to her pacing. She wanted a part of the feast too, but knew if she edged forward it could become dangerous.

Her keen ears pricked forward, the first to hear the hunting pack returning though she was the furthest away. So focused was she on seeing if they had a large enough kill, so that she might have some of the leftovers if the other pack wolves were satiated, that she lost focus on her immediate surroundings.

A yelp escaped her when a female wolf with sandy fur and brown eyes snapped at her ear, brushing past her to bump her aside.

Hermione tucked her tail and skittered away, her lips pulling back in a snarl even as her ears pinned back and she ducked her head down lower.

Lavender snapped again, her wolf brown eyes dancing with laughter before she turned back and wove through the pack to the hunters and their kill. Pavarti threw her head back in her own amusement and shook out her black fur as she walked with her friend—her perfectly groomed tail swung and smacked across Hermione's snout as the duo passed.

Hermione sneezed and backed up further from the field, into the shadows, her gold eyes narrowing. The kill smelled so good, but she knew she'd have to wait longer. So she sat in the outskirts, looking upon the pack as it celebrated the hunt's fortune and ate their fill.

A scoff escaped her snout and she lay down with her head between her paws. Her attitude left her for sadness and she whined quietly in her throat.

She was hungry.

They had only caught a small doe.

…

Hermione tossed her mane of uncontrollable curls back and walked through the village with a book in her arms. She ignored the whispers—unnecessary whispers for no one truly could hide a conversation in a village of werewolves—and kept her head high as she retreated from the village to the woods.

To her hiding spot.

"Uph!" her breath left her as she ran into a solid form. Regaining her balance she looked up with wary gold eyes from underneath her curls.

Ronald stood smirking down at her, Lavender and Pavarti tittering off to the side. Harry stood a bit off with Ginevra.

Hermione swallowed.

"Another book?"

She sneered, "Indeed. I'm so glad you recognize one, considering I doubt you've ever opened even the basic regulations packet."

He scoffed at her. "It's no wonder you have no friends here, with an attitude like that. You're a nightmare."

She stuck up her chin, but otherwise kept her posture tight. "Finding a worthy friend in this pack is a hard task, truly. But I have come to think it more to do with present company than any of my own fault."

Lavender blinked, confused. Pavarti scoffed and tossed her sheet of dark hair. "You're such a scholar—it's no wonder you are so weak as a wolf. You should work on that you know."

Hermione narrowed her gold eyes, "My mind is sharp and my body is not so weak. I will get stronger yet. Let me pass."

Ronald bemusedly bowed out of the way, making a flamboyant gesture. "As you wish," he mocked, as if she were Alpha.

She kept her head up until she disappeared in the shadows of the woods, then she ducked it with the weight of her tears and ran. The path to her secret hide-away was well known to her feet, so she didn't need to focus.

There was once a time she had thought she had friends, in the pack. But that was when Remus was still here acting as her Papa. But he'd abandoned her just as easily as her biological parents had when the were-curse had taken her.

And then the others had stopped pretending.

…

Fenrir scanned across his men, checking they were prepared for the journey. He'd picked only the strongest, the ones physically and spiritually strong—and the ones loyal to their mates. He would not have a potential ally using females to weaken his men and tempt them into an alliance that would doom them.

Fenrir, as Alpha for so many centuries, was wiser than that.

Even though he was unmated himself, he was also stronger than any such machinations. He was an Alpha waiting for the one just right for him, and he would make a wise choice so that his pack would continue to flourish.

This trip was two fold—secure an alliance of a pack closer to the human settlements with better resources, and to also scout for any potential mate to be.

Fenrir was always looking—he had been for centuries.

Those centuries had hardened him as a man and a wolf. He was a specimen even in his own pack: he stood a head taller than the next tallest man, his shoulders were as broad as the stocky blacksmith's, and his wolf silver eyes never left him in his human form.

The Brethren well knew what that meant—that meant a were had bonded with his wolf, was one, was strong.

Alpha breathed in deep and let it out slowly through his nose, tasting the air. Then he shouldered his pack and rumbled quietly, "We move out."

Every wolf heard, and the party pared off from their pack to find this Phoenix Clan.

The journey wasn't long, with men experienced to travel and hunting together, and the nine days it took to reach the scout for the Phoenix clan was time spent planning and talking about how they would gather information.

Confirming what would make them reject any alliance.

Fenrir stared at the weak looking wolf they had found as sentry, the blonde little man quivering under the weight of amazement and fear.

"We seek the Phoenix Clan," he rumbled in his Alpha timbre.

"I greet thee!" the man squeaked and excitedly gestured the way before rushing to take it.

Fenrir's lips rolled in a quick snarl before he followed.

The pack, and especially the Beta Romulus, followed in amusement.

So far it was not the best first impression: who put a weakling on sentry duty? Who put a small young werewolf barely aware of pack etiquette to be the first to greet other clans?

It was ridiculous.

But then the pack broke through the woods into a field that opened up into the village. Fenrir's face blanked—the rumors were true, this pack lived in wealth. Every hut was white washed and fresh looking, every garden lush with plants, every face that looked at him was glowing and healthy…and admiring.

He narrowed his silver eyes, until they were only darkness beneath his eyelashes. How quickly he got the make of this pack—they idolized power.

…

Hermione stayed in the shadows of the huts, leaning against the cool wall as she observed the clan bonfire. The Brethren—how they lived up to their name and tales!—sat in military strictness, each guarding a brother's elbow.

Her clan, in contrast, milled about with the excitement of puppies.

She watched the proceedings with wide gold eyes, admiring the contrast of these controlled powerful weres. Alpha Sirius lazed about as if this was some grand party, and indeed the cured meats and ales were brought out.

She scoffed—hardly the first impression one wanted to make to a clan known for their military might. These men would not be given to excess in a stranger's village. But she stayed despite her growing irritation and even embarrassment—she wanted to hear.

But she also wanted to be safe, so it was at the edge she stayed, and she was thankful for the curse giving her keen ears.

The Brethren were asking for a one-week visit, to learn of their pack and possibly speak of an alliance. They wanted a potential ally to send word of Renegades or Hostile packs making any moves in the area. They wanted to find out if this was a good location to gather such information—to make the alliance worthwhile.

How brilliant! Her gold eyes sparkled. Having a system for information gathering about potential attacks would mean less surprises, less chance of the women and children being caught alone. As it was, the Phoenix clan never really worried about such things. Hermione had been with them through several attacks that had devastated the village, and one that had devastated her personally.

But her clan would never put much forethought—though they had good warriors they were more a reactionary type.

It didn't make her feel safer in the least.

And as the gold wolf eyed these newcomers she marveled at the obvious strength to them, the diligence they displayed to protect their interests.

Then she saw the way Lavender and Pavarti tittered and sidled up, flirting with several of the strange warriors.

Hermione figured that the drinks had been passed around enough—no more negotiations would occur tonight. So, rather than see her pack make fools of themselves (and possible see more males fall for feminine wiles she lacked), she edged further into the shadows and made to her hut on the other side of the village.

She didn't see the silver eyes that sharpened on the movement but missed what had moved. Hermione didn't know that something gold had caught the interest of the Alpha.

…

Fenrir marched into the village in the predawn light, his silver eyes taking in everything. This pack was still asleep. After yesterday's celebrations he supposed they were handling their overindulgence in their beds. He sneered.

His pack was awake, but sticking within the boundaries of their claimed resting spot. While this pack wanted alliance, he needed—as a good Alpha—to carefully consider the benefit.

He didn't want to tie themselves to weaklings who would bring nothing to the arrangement, even if they had a good position for information from wizards.

It seemed this morning would not be the time to gather some intelligence, as everyone was resting. He supposed he could snoop around a bit, but no telling slips in conversation would be had for now.

Then his sharp eyes caught movement on the brush line. Narrowing his gaze he focused on the small shifter with a book in her hands as she skirted the village.

He didn't recall seeing her at the bonfire last night, and she looked small and sickly. Tilting his head he strained for her scent, taking in a large draw of air.

Her gaze snapped to his—and it was gold. A familiar glint of gold.

Fenrir straightened as her wide frightened eyes met his. She seemed to crouch over her stomach, to hunch in on herself as she froze. Fenrir narrowed his eyes and approached, staying her gaze and daring her to run from him as he stalked up to her.

Her form was shivering as he loomed up close to her, taking in how small she actually was. And she wasn't sick, her scent was healthy and musky and strong. His nostrils flared at the pleasant smell, but then the acrid salty scent of fear accompanied it.

"Name."

She gasped and drew back a little at his strong command, her wide gold eyes staring up at him through chaotic curls. "Hermione!" she squeaked out.

"Which sire?"

She swallowed and straightened slightly, her own eyes narrowing. "I wasn't born in the pack, wasn't born wolf," she said defiantly and seemed to wait for him to do something. He just waited. She blinked and turned her head slightly, but continued looking at him, examining his expression. "Remus brought me in."

He blinked and humor overtook him. Remus Lupin had been turned by the virus and then brought to Fenrir's pack, but had run. He hadn't known he'd joined this weaker newer pack, but it was good that the wolf hadn't gone rogue. "A strong pup, is he still around?"

Her eyes darted away, "No."

Fenrir stared in consternation down at the female _were_, admiring her gold eyes even as they darted away from him.

"May I have your name?" she managed in a controlled voice, her eyes just peeking up at him from under her lashes, a bravery steeling her fidgeting.

Fenrir grinned sharply down at her. "Fenrir, Alpha of the Brethren."

Her breath caught as her eyes darted down to his teeth, her back stiffening.

"Hermione," he started, calculating. "How long have you been with this pack?"

"Eight years…" she responded cautiously.

His eyes narrowed. That was long enough time for her to put meat on, to become more wolf in her aspect. While she had the amazing gold eyes that surely belonged to her wolf, her body was still weak and human—she was omega.

Which didn't fit.

Wolf-eyes were never Omega, were never less than beta.

She swallowed and stuck her chin up, though it trembled. Her gaze focused fully on him and her hair swung back over her shoulder.

"Tell me, Lupita," her nostrils flared, "when Remus left."

"Almost four years ago now," she said strongly, though his keen ears detected the waver in her voice.

"That is a long time," he rumbled in displeasure.

…

Hermione swallowed. It was all fine to admire these werewolves from afar, but up close they were larger than any wolf she'd come across. And scary! She had enough self-preservation to want to be as far away as possible.

And then Fenrir had narrowed his eyes at her, and then he'd rumbled.

If she were wolf right now her tail would be between her legs and she'd be pinning her ears back. As it was she felt her pupils dilate, felt the wolf come to the surface ready to run.

Then those silver eyes widened down at her, that predatory fanged grin returning. "Lupita, what gold eyes you have."

She choked and drew back.

"Don't run," he rumbled out even lower, a thrum from his growl echoing down her spine.

Intellectually she knew she should _never_ run from an Alpha, never run from another wolf. Instinctively, she wanted to do nothing else but run. She swallowed and licked her lips, torn. Her mind quickly worked, furiously deciding on the best course of action.

She tilted her chin up and to the side, just slightly. Submissive. "The others will wake soon," she whispered, eyeing the large man. "May I finish my walk?"

His eyes sparked with some humor, and he laughed (which displayed all his very strong shiny sharp teeth).

"I will find you again, Lupita," he warned, and then physically reached out to turn her towards the woods and gently shove her on her way.

Hermione shivered in fear, feeling his claws just brush her skin. She walked with a stiff back into the woods before she broke into a run.

…

Fenrir grinned as the she-wolf ran—for that was what she was doing, even as smartly as she went about it. He'd seen the fear in her, been amused by it a bit, but then he'd seen the intelligence. And then he'd been stunned as she plied to his instincts, soothing any affront by baring her neck the slightest and requesting his permission.

But why would the others waking be her reason?

Silver eyes scanned the huts, noticing her words were true. Rustling was heard in each, some moans and groans complaining of the after effects of imbibing, some feminine laughter…

A village waking up.

Fenrir seated himself at the cold fire, staring into the ashes.

How was it that in this healthy pack his attention was drawn to the runty gold eyed she-wolf? What was it about her that called to him? Why did she hide from her own pack?

And why had her bared neck been so attractive to him?

He sat and waited.

Soon what passed for the elders of this clan amassed, gentle teasing among them. Astonishingly, they bore out more food and drinks. Fenrir held back his sneer.

Then over the general chatter of the amassed wolves, "We shall hunt!" the one named Sirius crowed. He even stood, throwing a fist into the air. "We shall compete!" He roared.

The clan broke out into excited murmuring.

Sirius turned to Fenrir, calculation in his eyes. "Let us hold a friendly competition, a hunt with two parties vying for the best kill. What better way for wolves to impress each other?"

Some females simpered.

Fenrir huffed and stood. The silver-eyed foreigner dwarfed Sirius. Fenrir quickly calculated: this was a challenge, for certain. But even knowing this Fenrir couldn't say no. His Brethren's honor would not stand for it from such weak pack, as pointless as the battle would be.

"We will hunt," he rumbled out his agreement, his eyes narrowed.

Hunting in competition would not do anything for the alliance; if this man truly wanted to soothe the way then they would have formed mixed hunting parties. No, it appeared at least one ego was bruised in last night's conversation.

_Well good_, Fenrir grinned.

So far only one wolf, a runt at that, had impressed him. Let them try to prove themselves.

He threw back his head and howled out, taking the air from his lungs in a loud call to his brothers. They didn't howl back, but seconds later emerged from the woods silently—"The Pheonix have laid down a challenge."

Romlulus stiffened and glared. Fenrir laughed—"We hunt!"

The Brethren slowly grinned, a menacing predatory expression on each of their faces.

Some of the females blushed.

Some of the males swallowed.

But the deal was set.

Fenrir quickly hammered out the conditions of the hunt with the impassioned Sirius, and then both parties were organized and off.

Fenrir caught a scent, and barked out to his brothers before veering off. They would continue the hunt. He had other quarry. He snuck through the woods, weaving through shadows and dappled sunlight, his feet not making a sound in the rich loam floor.

He came upon her and was startled at her appearance, and his suspicions confirmed. She was in her wolf form—a gorgeous cream and white coat with bronze markings. And her eyes, her wolf eyes, were the same stunning gold as her human eyes.

In the shadows Fenrir narrowed his silver eyes at the runty gold-eyed wolf, watching her slink down along the river. He knew the rest of the pack was waiting for the hunting party to return. A snarl curled one side of his lips, revealing his fangs, as he watched from the shadows.

She didn't notice him, for he was downwind and shadowed at a knoll.

He didn't go out to confront her, more set on watching. Though he was part of the hunting party competing against the host pack for sport, he knew his packmates could take down a suitable kill without him.

The gold wolf crouched at the river edge, eyes intent on the river. She was so still for so long a predatory part of Fenrir awoke, wanted to hunt with her. She would make a good addition to his hunting party.

He waited with her.

She finally pounced, splashing into the river and emerging with a large salmon in her mouth.

Fenrir blinked and tilted his head.

The salmon here had poison flesh—parasitic for the wolves. Surely the gold wolf knew this?

But he watched her carefully eat the head—the nutrient rich and safe portion—before craftily leaving the carcass in reach of the scavengers. Fenrir sat on his rump, reluctantly impressed.

For when the scavengers left all that remained were bones and the fatty rich skin of the fish. The gold-eyed wolf happily returned to her kill and filled her belly with the harmless remains.

He snorted and moved off, pushing his weight away from the river edge and taking one glance back at the wolf happily pouncing back into the water.

Fenrir would definitely keep an eye on her.

…

Hermione happily played and hunted the day away, filling her belly even if not with the nutrient rich meats the hunting parties would bring home. At least she wasn't starving, even if she was still as runty as ever.

She'd heard the haunting howl earlier, read the tone and excitement. It was a hunt: during the day and not during a prominent moon phase? The thought had given her pause, and she'd made note to return that night for the feast—just in case. While she wasn't exactly part of the main lifestyle, if her absence was noticed they could consider it a slight.

Who knows what they would do with that excuse.

So when dusk was spreading soft colors in the sky she ran through the brush, weaving through brambles and around knolls. She knew these woods, so she was back at the village quickly. And just in time.

The hunting parties called out success, their howls being joined by the welcoming howls of the females. Hermione added her own discreet croon, curious.

Their pack had certainly caught a nice boar; he would feed the pack well. Hermione watched her packmates move in, celebrating early.

She stayed back.

Then thunder like rumbling came from the woods, making her fur stand on end. The Brethren came out, dragging a bull moose between four of them it was so large and cumbersome.

The pack broke into chittering—admiration and disbelief—and Hermione dared a small undertone of a croon to congratulate the Brethren, hoping it was hidden underneath her pack mates babbling.

…

Fenrir heard it. He heard it and his wolf raised its head to howl victory again. The Alpha remained silent though, taking in the signs that the Pheonix had prematurely celebrated their hunt.

Pups.

His pack dragged their kill to the center of the clearing, displaying the trophy of their prowess.

He paced on deliberately heavy paws to take the first tear, the richest meat—and made a show of viciously claiming his portion.

Then his pack moved in, clearly warning the Phoenix clan that _they_ would be only granted left over's, if there were any. The slight had been responded to.

Some females dared to pace closer, displaying themselves and whimpering.

Fenrir shook his large silvery grey body and took his portion of the kill. Then, without a second thought, he took his bloody mouthful and left the circle of feasters. The two flirty wolves of this pack tired to entice him to them, but he snarled around his portion until they backed off.

Desperate pups.

He continued to the shadows on the very outskirts of the circle, for there Hermione waited in her stunted form. He knew she was waiting for the scraps of the hunt, and he took pleasure in the way she snapped up from her laying position as he approached.

He set his honor portion of the kill at her paws.

Her breath caught in her lungs and she stared at him, he growled pleasantly at her and then reached to nuzzle her snout with his. Her breath shuddered from her and she whined low. Scared.

But he waited patiently.

Then she quietly crouched over the meat, her gold eyes watching him warily as she reached to take a nibble.

He didn't move until she'd taken a few bites. Then he lowered his head and joined her in feasting on the rich portion. She paused slightly as he joined her, but he continued without qualms and she relaxed for their meal.

When they had finished Fenrir licked his maw and watched her quietly clean her paws. Her posture was still tight and small, but she wasn't watching him warily.

It was a start.

…

Hermione hummed as she kicked her feet in the creek, shifting her weight on the tree that had grown out over the water. With delight she flicked the page over in her book, stretching briefly in the sun before continuing to read about the other creatures. She thought it was fascinating that the Goblins lived in magnificent caves; sometimes she craved the earth around her like that.

With a little giggle she continued reading about several cultural miscommunications—well that was—

"_YIP_!" Hermione yelped as a shove forced her off the tree into the creek, book and all. Panting and scared she looked up through her sodden hair to the sneering faces of Lavender and Pavarti.

"Well, runt, maybe you should work on your senses."

Hermione glowered up at her, then noticed her quickly soaking book and gave a cry as she rescued it.

Pavarti laughed, "Still chasing book knowledge hmmm? It's no wonder the men ignore you. You're so pathetic."

"Pathetic and Useless, even if you were allowed into the foraging parties you don't have the skills to even take care of yourself."

Hermione huffed and stood in her soaked clothes, "The brook is rather loud, and you purposefully approached from downwind even though the village is upwind from me. Don't claim my senses defunct when you actively hunt a pack member—you're despicable!"

Lavender growled and took a step forward on the bank, but the mud quickly halted her approach. "Ugh, that's so gross," she sniffed and wiped her foot off on the grass.

Pavarti tittered at her friend, but sent a wary glance to the mud. She tossed her sheet of dark hair and sneered at Hermione. "We'll leave you to your…fun. Try not to stay out too late though, wouldn't want to run into anything unsavory."

Lavender laughed and straightened up—"I'm pretty sure even the _trolls_ wouldn't use her bones to decorate their dens. But take care!"

The two wolves left with their laughter ringing through the trees. Hermione stood in the brook shivering, her face going from bitter anger into downtrodden sadness.

Her book was ruined.

As if she needed them to remind her that the pack didn't want her. After Remus had disappeared there'd been no one to shelter her. She well knew what the pack thought of book knowledge—well knew what the pack thought of her.

Fenrir's attention last night had just incited the girls' anger.

Sometimes she just wanted to run.

Remus had so kindly offered her sanctuary, taken her from her parents who didn't know what to do with her. And it had been good while he was here.

But the pack itself didn't value knowledge over more physical aspects, over beauty and virility and strength. And Hermione wasn't anything of that—of course not being fed the choice meats meant she just stayed as runty as ever, and created a never-ending cycle.

She sighed and struggled to the shore in her sodden leathers, wrinkling her nose at the smell. The leathers would stiffen and need to be reworked again, she needed to hide somewhere and fix herself up.

With a groan Hermione realized her hair would be a mess when it dried.

Whimpering she slipped on a few rocks and finished heading for the shore.

When she'd finally navigated the stones and mud she looked up only to come face to chest with Fenrir.

Hermione gasped and startled so she was standing up straight, her eyes wide.

…

Fenrir scowled down at the soaking she-wolf. He'd been following the duo of troublemakers since they'd skirted out of the village. He had noted their forward behavior last night, and then their furtive behavior this morning. And it was good he'd followed them.

Hermione looked miserable.

He took in her sopping hair, soaked clothes, the ruined tome…

With a deeper scowl he approached her, rumbling in his chest as he took her arms into his hands and checked her for bruises or scrapes and then ran his fingers in her cold hair to check her scalp.

She cleared her throat softly and blushed, but well understood this was appropriate Alpha behavior.

Pleased with her ability to stay still under his careful perusal his rumble shifted into a hum that sung in their bones.

Hermione sighed.

"Does your pack have much trouble with trolls?"

She immediately shifted, her posture becoming defensive as he finished checking one of her legs and moved to the other.

It was quiet for a minute before she responded, "Not so much anymore, but when I first came to the pack we had quite a few issues with a clan from the neighboring valley."

"You had trouble with trolls yourself?"

"I was…" she blushed and stuck her chin up with a defensive expression. "I was in one of the far caves. When the Trolls came and everyone was gathered to the safe grounds…I got left behind."

Fenrir scowled. "So those two she-wolves deliberately bring it up when their honor is tarnished by the memory?"

Hermione blinked her pretty eyes up at him, one eyebrow rising. "I was weak and let them make me cry, ran to hide when I did and placed myself in the path of the Trolls. "

Fenrir snorted—"You were a pup."

She looked at him unsurely, didn't seem to agree, but she didn't voice her opinion.

"Come, let's get you dry."

She stumbled along beside him, her skin raised with shivers and her teeth chattering. He rumbled out an unpleasant growl as he led her through the woods.

They broke through the foliage into his camp, several of his wolves standing at their entry. Hermione hunched in on herself, hiding half behind his bulk as he approached the fire.

"Alpha," Romulus greeted, his grey eyes peering at the half hidden she-wolf.

Fenrir grinned angrily, a snarl of his teeth revealing his emotions to his honor brethren. "The Pheonix clan is remiss in their care. We shall clothe her and warm her, feed her, and then escort her back to her home."

Romulus nodded his head.

Timid Hermione was ushered along to a shelter they'd built, the leather canvas let down to give her privacy as a large shift was pressed into her hands. She emerged with an embarrassed flush on her cheeks and her sopping clothes in her hands.

Fenrir grinned at her hair—half dried now it had seemed to double in size, curls going every which way.

"Thank you," she mumbled without looking up at him.

"Hand your clothes here, and come to the fire. Romulus and the men had a good hunt."

She did so carefully, skirting around his wolves and keeping her eyes down. When she came back to the fire Fenrir made sure she sat beside him, with Romulus on her other side.

"I'm Romulus," his beta murmured.

Fenrir watched with careful eyes as Hermione introduced herself and learned of his men, watched as she relaxed, watched as she savored the simple cuts of meat they'd kept over the fire, watched as his men warmed up to her quick wit as it revealed, watched as she laughed and teased and encouraged his rowdy brethren.

Perfect.

Romulus leaned back on his hands, sending his alpha a smirk and a wink.

Fenrir snapped his teeth at him, but couldn't help a grin.

Many thought his clan was all about brute strength and violence. They were wrong. Fenrir and the Brethren were the envoys as they were the strongest, and the rest were left at home to carry on with daily life. This gave a deliberate impression of strength so their pack was less likely to be attacked.

Hermione was actually quite the prize…

And they still had negotiations to conclude.

Hermione stayed in their camp overnight, sated and warm. She donned her dry clothes in the morning and was escorted back home. The Brethren all noted that with each step they took closer, the she-wolf retreated into herself more and more.

They didn't like it.

…

Hermione had never felt so rested, and she'd slept on the mossy forest floor last night! But the banked fires and the Brethren around her had kept her safe and warm…she hadn't woken at every little noise.

She'd begged leave of them as soon as they got to the edge of the village, and now she was carting her damaged shift, and her dirty laundry, to the stream.

Hermione hummed under her breath as she finished her washing, squeezing out the water from the fabric by pressing the shirt onto a smooth boulder.

…


	3. Snake Charming--Hermione Theodore

A Hermione-Theodore story that has been rattling around in my brain. I don't own any characters you recognize. I don't make any money off of posting this. I just want to share a little blurp that has me intrigued but just won't let itself be written in completion yet.

Summary: Gryffindor...isn't so nice as everyone believes. And the facade crumbles as the Boy-Who-Lived uses an old Hogwarts edict to switch to the original House the Hat chose: Slytherin! And being the Harry with a saving-people-thing, he saves Hermione Granger in a way none expect. Oh, and Theodore has long admired Hermione from afar...

...And so this beginning blurp being...

Hermione watched Harry stare morosely out at the pitch, and her heart lurched. This was her brother-in-soul. She wanted to help him. They couldn't last much longer stuck in this House, with these people and these plans. And she could not condone a plan that sacrificed her Harry! Dumbledore's careful concealing and revealing and magic tricks had to end. She stuck out her chin with a mulish expression taking over—she'd end it.

For all that they overlooked her as the bookish one, the mudblood, they forgot that Hermione was the cunning one, the careful one. And Hermione Granger always had a plan.

After a few days of settling into Hogwarts, Hermione carefully schooled her approach to Harry. She was truly excited for this, and let that show, but she didn't let a hint of her trepidation and worry show. Because then Harry would wonder, and he'd get the truth out of her...which would end up with him not taking the chance.

He wouldn't leave her alone here. And that certainty, that was what made Hermione follow through with the plan. Harry needed to get away from Weasleys and Lions and Dumbledore...he belonged in his true House.

Hermione would survive.

"Harry," she whispered urgently, excitement clear in her voice.

His dull green eyes looked at her lazily, a slight smile pulling at his lips when he saw her book.

She grinned, "Look what I've found!" And they bent their heads over the book and Harry grew more excited and Hermione grew more grimly proud. Yes, Harry would get out of this mess.

Ronald loudly joined them, making a mess of her notes and homework and books, which was fine because it hid the book they were truly interested in from the redhead's gaze. But Hermione stiffened up her spine and tried not to show her disdain for the Weasley boy. She hated the way he manipulated Harry, hated the way he covetously eyed what Harry had, hated the way he used her to get to Harry.

And that was ending now.

Her plan went off without a hitch.

...

There was an unease floating through the hall when they entered, and Pansy, ever keen for gossip, noticed it immediately. But as efficient as her subtle system usually was, no one knew what was going on. Maybe something hadn't even happened yet—Hogwarts tended to have that anticipatory air when something was just about to occur.

And it had to be something big.

Then Potter, of course it was Potter—it was always Potter, stood up and approached the head table. Whatever he said must have been the start; Snape jolted to an almost standing position, McGonagall sat back ashen, and Dumbledore stopped twinkling. Furious conversation followed, hands gesturing and faces morphing into delightfully telling expressions.

Pansy leaned forward, her ears straining.

Pointlessly, because Potter raised his voice, "Nevertheless, I request to be resorted. Under Hogwarts Addendum 437 my request should be met without question, as I have approached publicly, within the first month of school but not sooner than the first week was over."

The whole school drew in a sharp collective breath.

But Dumbledore conceded, and McGonagall left quickly to retrieve the sorting hat. The familiar stool was set up at the front of the hall—except Potter was now more man than eleven year old child and it was all so odd...

Then the sorting hat loudly called "Slytherin!"

The whole of Hogwarts in the hall was silent, stunned for minutes. Then loud voices started protesting, arguing. But the entirety of the Slytherin table stared in shock. It was an archaic tradition to offer a resorting, from way back when blood feuds were more actively practiced and family connections could legitimately mean you were in danger in your House.

And Potter had dug it up to switch from Gryffindor!

To Slytherin!

Her dark eyes glittered with questions, and she tugged on Draco's hand. But the blonde aristocrat was studiously focused on their house's new addition, watching the way Potter walked towards their table and settled in to the space rapidly cleared for him.

...

Harry sat with the Slytherins, and his heart cried out as much as his stoic face demonstrated his pride. He'd gotten away.

But a pair of brown eyes from across the room were killing him. His best friend was proud of him too, but he could see underneath her relief and care for him was the terror over what would happen to her now.

Hermione was like that, self sacrificing. She had always been like that for him. She'd been the one to suggest he re-sort himself—but failed to mention that only one of them could do it due to some obscure Hogwart's law: it was to prevent a mass rearranging of the houses.

He felt a keen gratitude for how chatty the sorting hat was with him, as they discussed the tradition and how the hat had originally wanted him in the House of Snakes...if the hat hadn't told him he wouldn't have known why Hermione would stay in the House of Lions.

He swallowed and turned his glare up to the professors' table. He cleared his throat and in the ringing chaos following his re-sorting it drew every confused eye back to him. He lowered his chin slightly and dared anyone to interrupt—"As I've now been sorted into my proper house," Ginevra and Ronald glared while the staff looked bewildered, "I feel it will be easier for me to protect my familiar."

A confused and wary Snape drawled out, "Just how is a snowy owl in danger?"

Harry's eyes flashed, "My viper would be. I request permission to retrieve her and settle her in my new quarters." Even Slytherins near him drew in sharp breaths and tried to inch away unobtrusively.

But Harry was only concerned for those brown eyes as they widened with hope and relief.

His eyes darkened as Ronald, in his shock and anger, reached a hand to clench it over her shoulder and caused her to wince and draw her attention away.

….

Blaise sent off a brief missive to Theo, watching with his dark eyes the new proceedings. But Potter settled into the house unassumingly and without any fanfare. Even Draco left the Boy Who Lived alone. There was something eerie about him now, and so his entry into the nest was a rather quiet one.

And Blaise, quiet watchful Blaise, was seeing into things that the Gryffindor House usually kept so tightly under wraps. For such a group of loud idiots any hints of true inner-House dissension was usually not even whispered in the halls. For every House had its own system, its own hierarchy—and therefore its own plots and fighting. But Gryffindor, the loudest and boldest, always seemed to keep this under wraps.

Even Hufflepuff broke out into public evidence of feuds.

But the guise was thrown off; Harry Potter had left the Den of Lions to enter the nest of Snakes. And in the aftermath Blaise spotted much in the telling posture and reactions of the other Gryffindors.

Theodore Nott would not like this. But Blaise sent the letter anyway.

...

Draco watched with narrowed grey eyes. Theo would not like this. While the rest of the school likened Draco to the Prince of Slytherin, the house of snakes boasted an entirely different subtle hierarchy. The Malfoy scion was quite happy with his place at the right hand of Theodore Nott—the bloke was brilliant.

And Nott was already scheming to win this war, which was why he wasn't at school now. So Draco Malfoy had been charged with overseeing the one thing Nott would worry over while he was away. Draco had thought this would be an easy job, and a hard swallow followed this thought, because it wasn't.

Because Harry bloody Potter had switched Houses!

Gritting his teeth until they cracked he watched the green eyed troublemaker slide quietly into the commons, Draco's wrath not even slaked by the way no one greeted him. They didn't know how to take the Lion deserter.

What Draco wanted to do would be to very boldly punch the bloke right in the chin!

But he had to attend his task, and if Harry was here that meant she was unattended, unprotected. Draco stalked out of the commons in search of her.

He always found it strange that Slytherin had such a reputation, when they were the only House he knew of that actually boasted stronger alliances. He'd seen Hufflepuffs come to blows over the simplest things, seen Ravenclaws undermine each other with gleeful expressions, and now seen Gryffindors reveal their fangs to each other.

What went on that he usually didn't see in the House of Lions?

With a swallow he quietly and subversively checked the library. She was there, seated under a stained glass window and looking like she'd be settled in for a while. Draco casually picked up his own book and sat for a long shift.

...


	4. Different Takes--Harmony

I don't own or make profit off of anything you recognize, or this story actually. Blah. Anything new is my intellectual property, but I share well. :)

A Hermione-Harry story. AU. Harry never went to Hogwarts, in fact he's been missing since he was a kid. Strangely, no one has heard from a Remus J. Lupin either...not since the mass murdered Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban in 1985. Hermione has been using her research skills to protect herself, and moonlighting for an Order of the Pheonix that doesn't trust her but asks her to parlay with some Rogues...

... ... ... ... ...

Hermione slowly blew out a breath in the chill evening air—taking a cautious glance around the dodgy neighborhood. She wished it weren't so, that they didn't have to come out here when the times were already so dangerous, but she'd triple checked her sources.

Maybe she wouldn't have minded so much, except…

"Iz zis it?" the French tones of Fleur Delacour uttered in disgust.

"It is," Hermione said firmly. Not even looking at the stunning witch, Hermione was used to that attitude.

Fleur sniffed dramatically and turned her nose up—"It'z horreeble."

Hermione sighed and turned her eyes to Number Seven  
>Raven's Peak. "Nothing we can do for it, Miss Delacour. Let's get this over with."<p>

Her sources had said that a trio of _specialists_ lived in this very house, and would be able to help with the war. Specifically with the Order. And Hermione was only in this mess because they'd finally caved to her begging for help protecting her parents.

And that still came with a price.

So she'd called in several favors in order to find these mysterious _Raiders_ to help the Order. Only when their services were secured would she get help for her own situation.

How horribly selfish the war made everyone.

Fleur fluffed her hair and patted her cheeks, smoothing her clothes carefully before ringing the bell.

The house went eerily quiet—where previously they could hear movement, and the murmur of voices, the silence was absolute.

Hermione shivered.

With no warning footsteps the door was suddenly pulled open, a rather roguish and stunning gentleman with malachite eyes leaning in the frame to block their view of the interior.

"What?" he asked sharply.

Fleur stiffened and tossed her hair, smiling coyly while leaning forward.

The man furrowed his eyebrows up, blinking at her unimpressed.

Hermione hid a grin behind her hand as she ducked her head further into the shadows of her hood.

"Monsieur, I 'ave 'eard rumorz of your… experteez."

"Rumors lie," he said shortly, his green eyes flashed. "And I ain't heard no rumors of you."

Fleur blinked and straightened before trying again. "At leazd 'ear me out, non?"

The man let out a long-suffering sigh before opening the door, taking a step back to let them in while calling out over his shoulder. "Guests! Or customers."

Fleur flounced in like she owned the place, sending a haughty glance around at the décor. Hermione murmured a thank you as she walked in, tapping off her shoes carefully.

She followed the duo into a dingy sitting room, masculine in it's scarcity of decoration. There she peered out from behind her curls, taking in the two other men who had joined them on the couches. One dangerous looking scruff with wavy onyx hair and argent eyes leaned his tall frame against the mantle, eyeing them with a malicious mischievousness. The last man calmly took a seat across the room in a dark armchair—his eyes were a stunning citrine behind shaggy bangs, and on his scarred face, scarred everywhere they could see around his shabby clothes, the look he gave was predatory.

Fleur sat primly, smiling demurely and obliviously while Hermione settled beside her. "I work for an organization…" Fleur began.

Hermione listened to her introduction, watching the three strange males _not _react to the veela magic at all. If anything they became more closed off the more Fleur flirted and tried to pull them in.

"We don't do charity," the predatory looking man intoned, breaking into Fleur's diatribe.

Hermione swallowed.

"Not e'en if a lady azkz?"

The dangerous appearing man snorted, tossing his wavy black hair back. "Especially if a lady asks. We ain't stupid."

Fleur gasped and sat up straighter. "Our cause iz true!"

"Then you should not have tried to manipulate us into helping you," the calmer brunette with scars across his face intoned. Even though he was calm his voice was like granite and his eyes glittered ferally.

Fleur flushed and tilted her chin up—"I did no zuch thing! 'Ow dare vouz accuse me!"

The younger roguish man laughed. "You've been trying to sway us since I opened the door!"

"'Ardhearted men! I 'ave the mind to—"

"Fleur," Hermione whispered sharply. Then she blinked and ducked her eyes to the men who had also stopped laughing at her reprimand. She swallowed and stuck her chin up, carefully removing her hood and tucking curls behind her ear. "I'm very sorry, sirs."

The dark lanky man smiled and twitched his head.

She stammered as she continued under their silence. "The truth of the matter is that we need your help. And knowing the Order they will expect you to demand something in return. I swear it will not be charity."

"Knowing the order?" the brunette asked.

Hermione cut her eyes down to her lap, where her fingers were clenched tightly together to calm her nerves. "Yes. In my dealings with the Order they always demand something in return"—Fleur hissed at her angrily but she continued—"so they should expect no less from someone else."

"And why would you have dealings with the Order then?"

She swallowed and looked up at the dark man, drawing her courage from his piercing argent stare. "I'm a mudblood." All three men stiffened. "And I need to protect my parents."

Fleur huffed and crossed her arms, rolling her eyes. "They 'ave told you; your parentz are not a target. We 'ave more prezzing concernz."

Hermione closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. "And they have heard me argue my point countless times, but now is _not_ the time to bring it up."

"Actually now is a good time," the young man said, leaning forward and peering into her face with a flirtatious smile.

Hermione sat up straighter, blushing. She felt the way Fleur bore up at the slight, and the muggleborn felt rather embarrassed that the man was getting back at the French woman in this way.

"What have been your arguments with the Order, and what are they asking of you in return?"

She darted her eyes between the three men, uncertain and a little scared under their scrutiny. But Fleur was here, and the catty witch was watching. Hermione would at least look strong in front of her.

She licked her lips and explained. "I'm not just any mudblood—in school I've bested their sons and daughters in every subject. I'm well known, if only because students complain that I don't know my place. And I've started collecting…information." Hermione cleared her throat and blinked quickly. "A few of the missions based on my information had a leak—I've received several threats, and had a few encounters.

If any of the pureblood supporters decided to act my parents would be the most vulnerable. It takes only a basic knowledge of the muggle world to find them."

"All logical and good points," the scarred man nodded his head.

"And what did they ask of you?" the scruffy man insisted.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, ducking her eyes down to her lap. "But they asked me to locate you three, and promised their help only once your allegiance was secured."

The younger barked out a laugh, standing and approaching her to kneel at her feet. His large rough hands took hers as he grinned up at her. "Stunning and intelligent? And then we add this familial loyalty—I'm impressed."

Hermione blinked rapidly and blushed, keenly noticing the dark coloring taking over an angry Fleur's face.

"As are we."

"I…thank you?" She said uncertainly, wishing to pull back up her hood to hide in the shadows of it. Manners insisted she be grateful for the compliments, even as doubtful as she was to their authenticity.

Fleur sniffed.

"We _might_ work with you," her heart felt heavy, "if you act as our liaison while we make the decision. Talk to us, Miss, and convince us to join this war."

"Right now?" she asked tremulously.

"Yes," the gruff man with curly black hair made a grand sweeping gesture with his arm. "Convince us."

Hermione licked her lips and tried to start, the breath of any words died on her tongue. Her eyes darted to the focused green eyes still staring flirtatiously at her.

She closed her eyes. "In truth I can't convince you."

"What!?" Fleur screeched, making to stand from the couch. Hermione's eyes snapped open to watch the enraged witch.

"Sit!" barked the scarred man; his voice much harder than they'd heard it previous.

Hermione jumped and clenched her eyes shut again.

"Why can't you?" the young man asked softly.

"Because if I was able I would run as far away as I could from this whole mess—and I can't in good conscience drag you into it when I feel that way."

"Oh I like her," the gruff man purred out, smiling.

The brunette smiled much more softly at her, his head tilting as he regarded her.

And the warm rough hands holding hers tightened, dark malachite eyes sparkling as he leaned more into her space. "But you can't run? Even if you got your parents safe?"

She swallowed as Fleur sputtered in the background. Those green eyes captivated her—and she'd never been the focus of such an intense handsome man before. It was flustering and she needed all her focus to respond appropriately without revealing her embarrassing sentiment. "There are some others I would like to protect as well; they can't leave the magical world so easily."

"And who would you be fighting for?"

Hermione flushed and ducked into herself, pulling away from the green-eyed man. She'd been ridiculed for years over her "lost causes" and she wasn't sure she wanted to have perfect strangers laughing at her the same.

Fleur tittered behind her delicate manicured hand. Perhaps in reaction to the slight from the men, she cattily cooed—"Our little muggleborn is a little slow to catch on—her backwater ideas about her friendships is more her desperation to have any friends at all."

Usually the woman was more controlled and subtle.

But the slight—she was used to it and had heard it before—only made her straighten her spine and stick her chin up. These _Raiders _would know her conviction. "I have a half giant for a friend, and a few centaurs and house elves…and I correspond with a werewolf. These friends of mine aren't so easily hidden in the muggle world. I will fight so that they can live."

The men seemed to freeze, some aspect of their being becoming more intense and scary. Hermione stiffened and blinked her eyes, unsure who to focus on.

Fleur laughed, "See? The leetle étranger has foolish ideas, non? I shall be your liaison, we will 'ave a bon partnership."

"Get out."

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath at the dark command, pulling her hands out of the young man's grip and clearing her throat. Hot shame flushed her cheeks and tears pricked her eyes. Gathering her dignity about her as best she could she nodded her head and moved to stand.

"Not you," the gruff man bit out, taking a step towards their couch from his previous post at the mantle. His cutting grey eyes turned to Fleur—"I want this bit of French fluff out of my house."

Fleur gaped, her expression sharp and ugly with confusion and her previous taunting. Hermione was reminded of how ugly veela became when the veneer of human beauty was stripped away—though as a quarter veela Fleur couldn't transform Hermione saw now some of that instinctive guise falling.

Hermione was frozen half sitting and half standing, her quads straining but fearing to move to alleviate the ache. Fleur's entire stiff form seemed to vibrate with rage, her face coloring darker and her eyes flashing fire.

The scarred brunette stood and stepped forward, his lip curling up slightly.

And for some reason Fleur backed off quickly, her form losing the strict puffed up posture. With a sneer and a toss of her hair to recover her composure she spun and left—the door slammed in her wake.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath and fell back into the couch.

The three men turned to her, expressions open but intimidating for the open interest. She was used to peers and teachers and the Order. No one in her life, not even the parents she dearly loved, had ever looked at her in such a friendly manner.

Everyone was colored by expectation, question, derision…

She shook her head and ducked her chin, looking through her lashes at the green eyed rogue still kneeling in front of her. He was grinning, his stunning eyes sparkling at her.

"Well now that we're free of unpleasant company—what say you? Be our liaison until we have arranged our agreement with the Order."

She blinked her eyes and turned to the scruff of a man, watching him stretch his lanky frame and then ease into a chair. He moved with the casual grace she'd seen in the purebloods at school and it was slightly intimidating. But she voiced her thoughts anyway, "Why will you agree to work with the Order?"

The brunette retook his seat, more casual in his manner and all the easier to meet eyes with for that casualness. "Oh, we've not had our heads in the sand. We knew we'd have to get involved sooner or later."

Hermione blinked again, tilting her head to one side. "Then, then why play the games with the Order?"

"As one third party to another third party," the argent eyed man drawled, "it's always best to keep a group like the Order on their toes. All their plans for the "greater good" make me leery."

"They're an obnoxious lot," the roguish young man said solemnly, looking at his two companions.

Hermione eeped and blushed, quickly pulling her hands out of his. How she had forgotten he'd possessed them in the first place was beyond her—she wasn't used to touch at all and should have been hyper-aware of the continued contact.

The dangerous man barked a laugh, but the other two let her regain her dignity.

"I suppose we should introduce ourselves…will you be discussing our names with the Order?"

"Well…of course I would be," Hermione said slowly, her eyes narrowing.

"Good! My lady, I go by Padfoot."

Hermione smiled, but with her half lidded eyes she had seen the way the other two had tensed and relaxed. "It's very nice to make your acquaintance—is that your thieving handle?"

Padfoot chortled, "Something like that."

"That's Moony, and I'm Raven."

"You can call me Jean."


	5. Knightly Heart--Hermione Galahad

I don't own, don't make profit, and just want to share.

A Hermione-Galahad (yes that Galahad from Yore) story. I was in my Arthurian legends class and some details in an epic caught my attention...

Ahem. Hermione is a very stressed witch on the Hunt, she deserves some knights in shining armour to save her.

... ... ... .. .. .. . . . . . .

_"She's like a sister to me."_

"That is all well, but what business have you knaves with my sword?"

Both boys spun around at his question, and he found himself staring at a frozen pair of youth, gangly and suspicious.

A wand pointed directly at his chest, and he arched a brow before he pushed it aside. He lowered his chin and glowered at the two, "My sword?" he inquired again.

Salazar shivered beside him—leave it to Nimue to pull them through her waters and expel them into a frigid winter. His glower deepened as he worried over his frail friend. The two boys shifted and pulled closer together, clutching his sword as something smoked blackly behind them.

"Who are you?" the redhead sputtered finally.

Godric sneered.

Salazar coughed and straightened under his sopping heavy clothes, "I am Salazar Slytherin."

Both boys tensed up further and held up the wand and sword in defense.

Godric growled and stood between them and his friend, "And I am Godric Gryffindor," he spoke lowly, intently watching the amateurs handle his sword.

The dark haired one gaped, his spectacles slipping down his nose to reveal the shock in green eyes before he recovered himself. "How…how do we know?" he asked suspiciously.

Salazar coughed wetly and cleared his throat, leaning slightly to one side. Godric watched this carefully and turned angrily to the two boys. "I care not what you ken, I desire my sword back and leave of you!"

The redhead flushed angrily, but the shorter one pulled back again, clutching the sword and the wand.

Godric stalked a step forward to retrieve his weapon physically, but stopped stunned.

His sword had started glowing red, the inscription on the blade looking like it had been reheated in the forge fires while the griffin engraved around the rubies appeared to lift and take flight.

The sword vibrated and loosened the boy's weak grip. The glow pulsed before Godric stumbled back, the force of the hilt appearing in his loose fist startling him.

In the following silence Salazar grumbled—"Can we go now?"

The redhead swallowed and looked at his friend, his eyes wide and his expression slack. The green-eyed youth looked similarly discombobulated, but his eyes hardened as his face set and he nodded curtly.

"That way," he spoke lowly while jerking his head to the East.

Godric grumbled about his heavy wet armor, worried it would rust if they didn't remove it and care for it soon. He hoped this shelter wasn't far. Suspiciously he matched the two teen's steps, following behind to watch his comrade's back and monitor the two strangers.

Being pulled directly into this from a battle was wraeking havoc on his nerves, and the still silent forest did nothing to calm them while they cleared the trees into an empty space.

Except it wasn't empty.

Salazar and Godric stopped side-by-side, staring wondoringly at the shimmering magic that veiled a certain section of the glade.

...

...

...

The woman huffed and muttered, going about being the hostess with a strict adriotness despite their minimal living. Godric and Salazar had blankets enough, and amenities that they had lacked on many of their honor quests.

The trio settled into their own other rooms with a stilted somber air, and the woman slammed the door and cleared a lock home with a loud finality. Godric and Salazar shared a glance as they felt the magic seal the room, wondering what the lady could be up to.

Trying hard to put it out of their minds, they settled to sleep: Godric twisted around his sword and Salazar palming a vial of the potions he always carried on him.

Godric had always been a light sleeper—and now in these strange circumstances near such an angry woman he was doubly wary. He twitched awake at a light sound, wondering why any of them would be up at this time of night.

Because he and Salazar slept in the common room, by the kitchen stove for heat, he could easily watch a pair of small feet patter to the pantry. He narrowed his eyes—it was Hermione, the woman he and Salazar were so wary of.

He frowned and turned slightly, just enough so that he could fully see.

Was she poisoning them? Was she hiding food stock?

He watched her open the cupboards and count under her breath, her brow furrowed and hair a mess as she otherwise stayed quiet.

He wondered how she'd learned to be that quiet. How long had she been scheming?

She rocked back on her heels and then crouched to dig in a lower cupboard.

With a light curse she withdrew, running a hand through her hair and glancing at the tent flap.

Godric stiffened.

She was crying.

But she drew back her shoulder and set her expression, starting for the door while muttering softly, "Mushrooms at least. Maybe some old berries and roots. And a bit of willow bark if I can find it." She sighed as she stopped at the exit, her form shuddering before she snatched up a cloak and wrapped herself up tight.

Godric shivered at the blast of cold air that came in with her exit—as if Frost was punishing them for letting her go alone.

He turned slightly and met Salazar's dark glittering eyes, their solemn cast startling him.

"Salazar?" he inquired softly, reaching out a warm hand to touch his cold cheek, his friend was always more susceptible to the chill.

"I…I will need to observe more," the man finally confessed.

It was some candle marks before the woman came back, her cloak folded in such a way to help her carry something. Salazar had drifted off again, but Godric watched her carefully lay out her find on the table.

There were mushrooms, small and pitiful; and she had grabbed some willow bark; a few dirty roots also littered the table, but nothing sweet that he could see.

The snow had covered much of anything else.

The woman coughed into her shoulder, trying to muffle it as she shivered. She rubbed her hands together to warm them up before taking the supplies and placing them low in the pantry.

She closed the cupboard door and leaned against it for a long while, her form utterly still.

Then she sighed and made her way back to her room.

Godric rubbed under his nose as he looked away. Sleep came to him slowly, until his thoughts were mangled and fuzzy.

He woke in the morning to Hermione pattering around in the kitchen. She absently greeted him as she stirred a pot on the stove; he took a seat at the small table and waited.

Salazar entered soon after that, straightening the collar of his tunic and taking long strides to the seat beside him. Hermione muttered a 'morning' at him too—busy with turning off the stove and stirring the pot.

Harry and Ron entered from their shared room with grins—camaraderie between them that tapered in enthusiasm as they saw Hermione.

Ron cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. Hermione glanced up briefly before nodding and gesturing to the table. She set out bowls and dished out the soup before opening a book and shutting herself off from the rest of the table.

Godric stared at her in puzzlement, sipping the bland herbal soup and thinking.

Salazar remained politely quiet beside him, but Godric felt the piercing gaze as it swept over those gathered. The clinking sounds of spoon on bowls sounded, and pages turned, but they were otherwise silent.

Ron and Harry exchanged off looks when the first tasted the soup but didn't say anything. Salazar politely excused himself when he was done his bowl, and Godric watched Hermione duck her head further into her book—making clinking noises that suggested she was busy eating.

He finished his bowl, watching Ron grimace but help himself to seconds from the pot. His eyes widened as facts rapidly came together in his head. He excused himself gruffly and went to find Salazar.

He found his good friend standing just outside the tent, surveying the bit of magic that kept them from the enemy. To their mage sight it was easy to spot the shimmering barrier—to see its intent and strength.

He sighed and sidled close, trying to discreetly block the cold wind. Salazar saw through him and gave him a wry look. Godric grinned sheepishly in response.

They'd always been able to do that, talk without talking. It had irritated Rowena and Helga, but they couldn't help it. The two men had been soul brothers for a long time. The women had stewed in anger over nothing that could be changed: women were like that, fickle and bitter throughout his whole life.

And now Nimue had sent them here for some reason. One moment he remembered that stupid battle for his muggle uncle Arthur and suddenly he was spluttering in the frigid waters that had once been the Lake. At least Salazar had been there beside him, despite being on opposite sides in the battle a part of him had died at the thought of being alone in this strange place the Lady of the Lake had sent them.

He cleared his throat and gazed beyond the barrier to the snowy woods—"The redhead is a big eater."

Salazar turned puzzled, dark eyes up to him before they cleared and he shook his head. "The lady didn't take much, barely even ate what was in her bowl at that. She hid behind a book so they wouldn't notice."

Godric swallowed a hard lump. It was difficult for them to suddenly be thrust into this situation—but they were knights. They were used to adapting and pushing forward. Both Godric and Salazar had learned early on that women were not to be trusted, even in their muggle personas of Gawain and Mordred they had experienced Morgain and Nimue and Guinevere.

Suddenly the female was the one that was being mistreated; and it skewed all their expectations and suspicions.

Salazar sighed—"She's…starving herself so they can eat."

Godric remained silent, but cautiously lifted his arm to grab the back of Salazar's neck in a firm, reassuring grip. Salazar let out a shuddering breath before bowing his head, carefully lifting his arm so he could clasp Godric's shoulder in an equally strong clasp.

Godric nodded his head in response and tilted his vision up to the stars.

Able to do this now, such simple affirmation, where they weren't in Arthur's courts or watched by Rowena and Helga was…freeing—

—and so painful.

When Godric had rescued Salazaar from that unhappy accident in childhood, their ignorance to their magic had created much of their simple utterances of brotherhood. Their bond had been forged stronger for the years then reinforced when they finally learned magic. But in Merlin's tutelage and at Hogwarts and even in Arthur's courts they couldn't show such weakness.

And the bond was stretched so thin…

A small squeak pulled them to reality, and they turned to find Hermione bundled in her cloak—frozen half in and half out of the tent. Her pale skin easily displayed her flush, but there was no condemnation in her expression.

Her embarrassed features rather begged pardon for intruding. "I'm sorry, but the boys are getting antsy. I thought we might be able to talk now." Her apologetic eyes glanced up to them before she ducked her head and retreated back into the tent.

Godric stood stunned for a moment—her eyes had been dark like Salazar's by a trick of the light.

Salazar sighed and pulled away, clearing his throat and combing back his dark hair. Godric started to grin at his friend, and laughed as he pushed him towards the tent.

Salazar wasn't good at opening up and sharing information, Slytherin that he was, so this would be interesting. And if they really didn't have to worry about that woman, Godric felt safe being amused.

...

The boys and they were huddled around the fire, watching the night as Hermione rested in the tent. The boys watched her with some worry, but Salazar and Godric knew she'd gone out foraging again and stayed up later researching. They found it odd that the boys did less than her—she took care of the tent and the boys as best she could and spent the most time working on their Quest.

Ron and Harry were exchanging exaggerated glances, but Ron finally gave in and looked away. "I can't talk to her," he said uncomfortably.

"Ron," Harry sighed in exasperation. "You're the one who likes her, you've gotta do something."

Ron ran his fingers through his hair, making a mess of it as he glared at the flames.

Harry glowered at him. "I don't know what's wrong between you two but you're the one that wanted her as your girlfriend—I'm not going to talk to her for you!"

"Merlin Harry! I know okay! I want to hold her and kiss her and touch her—but it's more difficult than you'd figure! She's always arguing with me!"

Harry grimaced, "You guys agreed on me, the uselessness of this trip…. It's why you left isn't it?"

"Merlin's balls," Ron exclaimed angrily. "I came back! Despite the bloody cold and disgusting food and uncertain welcome!"

Godric grimaced at the crude boy.

"And we weren't talking about you like that—she was arguing with me about staying. Trying to convince me that everything would come through. She quite clearly told me that we wouldn't do anything to upset you. Merlin Harry, she was always looking out for you is it any wonder I was jealous?"

"Ron, she's like my sister," Harry said quietly.

Godric rather disagreed; distaste marring his shadowed features as Salazar sat stiff beside him.

If Hermione were truly like a sister Harry wouldn't be encouraging this Ron character, his crude expressions and desires clearly not acceptable. If Harry felt anything protectively brother-like for the woman he would have long ago told Ron his advances were unwelcome. If the two actually enjoyed such a relationhsip then Lady Hermione would not be hurting and struggling like she was.

Instead Ron talked openly about what he would like to do to Hermione while complaining over her loyalty to Harry.

And these two were best mates? That might explain Harry's confusion, his inability to truly defend the lady even if just for her loyalty, but Godric still found it disgusting. Harry was doing nothing to protect Hermione's honor while this boy complained about her character and honour.

Godric sneered and turned his attention to Salazar. His soul brother had his eyes closed, his head resting against his joined hands and elbows planted on his knees.

His friend was tired; exhausted to the point that it seemed he didn't care. But Godric knew, because they both felt it.

They burned with anger over the mistreatment of such a woman. They wanted to take her away from this war and these boys and her struggling to take care of them all.

No, Harry James Potter was a failure of a brother. And Gryffindor and Slytherin were in one accord.

The lady was under their protection.

While it wasn't their place to say anything quite yet, a resolve hardened in the two time displaced men.

So they set about slowly starting to earn her trust, watching her wary face transform slowly into one of respect and quiet acceptance. Many conversations were shared—talk of the stars and the arts and the old ways of magic and God—Hermione displayed more and more of a genteel carriage as she befriended them, and the two knights noticed how the two boys took note of this.

The two knights did their best to be discreet in their interactions, but then one day on their patrols they hit upon luck like they hadn't in years.

A doe.

The hunt was brief and exhilarating, and they brought back their kill to clean it downwind of the camp. Harry and Ron whooped and hollered as they brought it in, but Hermione's quiet gratitude and sparkling eyes were more accolade.

They feasted on rich steak and set aside most to dry and stew in the coming days.

But that feast marked the turning.

The two young wizards grew frustrated, felt inept.

And the moody Potter burst.

.

[...dun dun dun! This leads up to the torture of Hermione, and this scene that I have pretty much fleshed out where we introduce Galahad ]

...

...

...

Salazar hunched over his knees, pressing his head into the bone and cartiledge under his stiff trousers. "That brilliant troublesome lady," he muttered in both despair and awe.

Godric turned his head away from where he had cocked it to better hear the screams and mutterings from upstairs. "What of it?" he asked gruffly, his throat choking the syllables.

"She's inundating them with so much useless information they won't know what is up or down."

The blonde fey girl trapped with them smiled, "Hermione always did have a way with words."

Ron growled and hit against the bars again, howling before turning his rage on them. "She's being tortured! This is no time for….this!"

Salazar looked up through his overgrown hair, his dark eyes murderous. "And you're hollering and banging is helping? Think boy! Think! Concerve your energy for when a plan comes to your mind so you can actually follow through!"

.

.

Then Hermione screamed the worst they'd heard yet. Everyone froze, the blood chillling in their veins and their eyes widening with a primal fear and, in the knights, a ferocious magic-seated anger.

Their magic had taken the witch as their sister

This would not be bourne.

.

The houseelf and the useless boys and the other prisoners they were freeing were ignored… Godric and Salazar cried out as they fought to get to their sister. She lay gasping, writhing and still bleeding on the floor and near insensate. Her brown eyes rolled as she tried to reach out to them, tried to focus on them.

Then Salazar was hit with a spell and went down with a shout, rolling but staying kneeling as he spun to deal with whoever had the time to notice them.

Hermione sobbed and closed her eyes.

Godric slid on his knees to her; cradling up her body against his chest and using his recovered sword to deflect spells that Salazar couldn't keep up with in his condition.

He growled and made his way to his brother.

The two huddled and shielded over their little lamb, hearing her little choked gasps for breath even over the shouts and spells.

And then the little elf, which'd been so frantically trying to get to them, was struck with a knife thrown, and he closed his eyes and popped away with the group he was in contact with.

Hermione let out a strangled cry and clawed to get towards the spot they were—and the whole attention of the enemy was turned on them.

The crazy woman with a black nest of hair cackled. "See little mudblood, you are so easy to abandon: trash." The elderly witch circled them with the others in their dark cloaks, closing in.

Hermione sobbed and scrabbled, but couldn't even find the strength to support herself on the floor. Godric growled at the feral looking man who was pacing, his yellow eyes on the bleeding witch.

Salazar huffed out a breath, whispering, "I don't like these odds."

Godric breathed in with difficulty, "Neither do I," he admitted in a low voice, trying to keep his hold on Hermione and his sword even while he was sure a bludgeoing hex had shattered a few of his ribs.

And their magic, while desperate and fatigued, was faltering in the shield.

The crazy witch danced a little as she circled them, "We have the mudblood, and the sword is in our reach. Our Lord will be pleased!"

Hermione's hand touched Salazar's cheek, and the man turned to her but she only gazed at him with dazed eyes.

Godric turned half his attention to them while he kept an eye on the fading barrier. He swallowed hard and started when he saw the runes she'd managed to inscribe with her blood in the unshorn cheek of his brother.

Then he started and looked down at his arm where she had struggled earlier, and he spotted the same runes.

He yelled out his fury and slammed his blade into the stone of the parlour. The rubies and inherent magic of the blade reacted.

Salazar cried out and shielded Hermione from the light—and the crackling of ancient magic drowned out the shouts of the enemies.

Godric watched stunned as his magic pulled an established leyline from the foundation of the manse. He could swear he heard Nimue's voice in the cacaphony—but he ignored it for the little choking cry his heart sister made.

A few of the artifcats in the room sparked and jumped in their spots, but one chalice rattled until it fell off the mantle and crashed to the ground. Amidst the showering sparks of spells Gdoric watched it roll along spell magic and wizards feet to land against the shield created by his sword.

And the ghost of Galahad rose up—his form in resting defense used in the last watch. But when he arose as if the alarm had sounded, he arose quite solidly a man.

And he proved once again why he was the warrior best suited for solo quests.

Godric gave a triumphant shout as the wizards fell beneath the sword. And Salazar managed to join the fray as Godric cradled his ribs and the little witch he'd taken as kin.

When the room was all of defeated foes the two knights returned to their third and helped him stand—Hermione, rather incoherent with her frailness, could barely maintain the stay of her neck.

Galahad gently lifted her into his arms and Salazar pulled and traced the last apparition of the elf. They emerged from the magic stream onto a sandy beach in balmy weather.

Godric lowered himself to the sand carefully, watching Salazar grimace as he tried to maintain his footing with a slice to his calf. Galahad looked between the two of them assessingly, but all their attention turned to the house when shouts started a newer cacophony.

"Hermione!" The redhead was repeating his chorus of yells from the prison cell.

Harry was much more silent, but his magic raged around him and he darted right towards their unconscious friend.

Galahad immediately knelt in defense, freeing one arm from under her legs and bringing up his sword. His magic shimmered in front of him and his teeth bore in a snarl.

Godric lumbered to his feet, understanding what had happened but still hurting that it _had_ happened. How poorly it looked when the others managed safety and yet they despaired over making it out alive.

"Galahad, these are allies. You arrived too late to see but they had escaped just before you were summoned from your watch." Salazar's cool voice sliced right through the tumult, and the larger redhead with a fang in his ear physically claimed the back of Ronald's neck and shook him into line.

Then she emerged.

Salazar stiffened and hissed, "Guinevere," and reached out for his brother. Godric stood solidly, taking in a painful breath and supporting Sal though his heart was sick.

Galahad looked at the two briefly but focused on the blonde woman and shifted his sword to shield Hermione more.

The woman stopped at the name, and stared at the men in their armor. Her brow furrowed. Then she tilted her chin up, "Guinever was once of my familiy line, but she was repudiated for her gross actions in King Arthur's Courts. Inciting war and manipulating men as she did…we would not stand for it. If you are the Knights of the Round Table…then please accept an apology from the DeLacour line for her misdeeds. And accept whatever comforts we can offer you here in this war."

Salazar shuddered and shook his head, looking at the woman with suspicious eyes.

"I have my mate," she said solemnly, and shot a glance to the man with the fang in his ear, "I would not dare use my inherent magics to beguile another man."

Harry closed his eyes and looked ill. "Can we just help Hermione now?"

Ronald shook off his brother's hand with a raging expression. "And who the hell is he?"

Godric sighed and braced his ribs with one hand, finally free to channel some of his magic to quicker healing.

"I am Sir Galahad of the Round Table," their friend said affronted, staring in consternation at the uncouth redhead.

Ronald snorted, "Yeah right. Hermione said you found some cup and went into this place in the sky. No way another one of you just came out of nowhere."

"Yet I am he," Galahad insisted.

Harry shook his head, "I don't care who you think you are. Ron, stop balking. Let's get her inside and healed."

The lady took them under control efficiently, directing the boys away and leading Galahad up to a small room. She shooed them all out as she saw to the other woman, the men just outside the door could hear her crooning to ease the witch as she tended her.

Godric closed his eyes, his ribs still too tender for him to sigh.

The blonde rescuee with the grey eyes passed them once, asking if indeed this was Galahad. Ronald stared and paced outside the room, glaring at the more recent arrival.

Salazar closed his eyes, Godric wondered how he was fairing, but knew not to draw attention to it at the moment. Their trust had somehow slipped; once they were alone they would heal.

The hostess emerged from the room to all three knights straightening in front of her—Ronald and Harry raced to her from the other end of the hall.

She sighed.

"Fluer?" Harry questioned.

"It will be a long while before she wakes, there was so much trauma. I've settled her in and given her a pain reliever potion. Let her rest and heal."

Ronald and Harry walked into the room without any other words and the knights followed them. But half an hour in Ronald got an uncomfortable look on his face—"I'm going to the kitchen mate."

Harry watched him for a few minutes, turned his gaze back to Hermione for a few minutes, and then looked up at the stolid knights. Then he sighed and left after his friend.

Godric closed his eyes in pain for Hermione. Salazar sighed and pulled his chair up close to the bed, reaching out and petting back some brown curls and feeling the temperature of her forehead with the back of his hand.

Galahad shifted, but remained in his position with them—stoicly waiting.

Hermione emerged from her unconscious state a mere hour later despite the French woman's prediction. And the men were glad they had stayed despite her suggestion. For Hermione woke with the panicky start of someone who was still at the battle in their mind, her form jerking and tense and eyes unseeing as she glanced about.

Salazar made a crooning noise, gently reaching out and patting the very tips of her fingers.

Then she started crying, and through her tears it seemed her vision cleared.

Hermione first looked at Salazar. With a little bubbling laugh she reached out and wiped at the bloody runes she'd patterned onto his face. "You couldn't even stop for a wash?" she inquired wetly.

Salazar smiled. "As always, you are much more important, sister heart."

She smiled and shook her head. "And you Godric," she struggled to turn, "shall I find you unclean and unpartaken in whatever amenities are offered in a place that has so rich a room and glorious a bed?"

"As equally so as my brother, dear one."

"Forgive me for saying so, but it really hasn't been so long since we've arrived as it is."

Hermione turned her attention to the stranger. Her eyes blinked rapidly—"You were the one in the room…in the light. I remember you…"

Godric and Salazar shared a glance, thankful that at least she retained most of her acute senses even while she was not in her usual frame of mind.

"My Lady, Galahad at your service." And he performed a proper bow.

"You can't be Sir Galahad, can you?" Hermione whispered in disbelief.

Galahad straightened up, "Well I can't be anyone else that I know of, otherwise I wouldn't be myself," he said rather abrasively. "And I shan't like everyone questioning it every time I introduce myself."

"Well, to be fair," Hermione wilted out, "they do paint pictures of you as a rather androgynous figure."

Godric barked out a laugh and slapped his knee, smiling at the recovering woman. "And history paints Sal and I as worst enemies when it could be no further from the truth."

Galahad smiled lopsidedly, though his face was ruddy with a blush. "The christian notion of faith at that point in time was steeped in the idea that martyrs and meek men were the holiest. They disregard an angry warrior God that the bible paints—a just God truly, but one just as righteously wrathful as merciful. He delivered people from their enemies in battle and used trials and tribulations to build their faith…I am a warrior for my King."

Hermione tilted her head, thinking hard, but her eyes were soft unlike other times when her knowledge was suited for a purpose and need—this was her own mind and pleasure at work.

"I'm not saying I object to your warrior stature, I am very grateful for it indeed. But I am not used to warriors coming to my aid so readily, and I was simply curoius when I asked my first inquiry." Though she blushed and turned her head a little to the side.

"Then I am he, my Lady."

She smiled slightly and shifted on her rest bed.

"Why was it a point of your curiousity then?"

She laughed softly, "When I was little and reading stories of your adventures I thought you were the grandest of all. You gave everything for the quest of the Holy Grail and were the only one to achieve the end for your commitment."

Godric felt a slow smile stretching his lips and he looked slyly at Salazar.

His brother's dark eyes were glittering. "Lady Hermione is very dedicated herself, and can't help but admire such trait. It is a compliment, fellow Knight."

Galahd shook his head. "I sought the holy artifact magicians had corrupted, when I found it and tried to fix the slight something went wrong and I was…sleeping without being asleep. I waited these past centuries until your magic woke me in that mansion." He stood straighter, "This is not dedication; this is simply what is right. Anyone worthy would do the same."

Hermione smiled and her eyes sparkled. "Stop protesting overmuch, and don't argue with a lady."

Galahad faltered and blushed ruddily again. Then his eyes darted guiltily to his fellow knights and took in the marks of her brief imprisonent.

Hermione merely tilted her chin up proudly under his flickering appraisal: they well knew the damage. Slurs carved into the skin of her forearm, unpatterned cuts and gouges wherever they looked, bruising on her wrists and face, a brace on her ankle…

"Forgive me for vexing you, my lady."

Hermione's eyes went narrow and she pouted.

Godric laughed a booming laugh and patted her hand. "You mistake our sister's intent. She jests with you, brother in arms."

Salazar shook his head and carefully ran a finger down some of the bandages on her closer arm. "Our Hermione is stronger than you believe."

Galahad blinked and his eyes flashed through calculations—"You have taken on another covenant before God?"

Hermione swallowed and looked at them.

"Nay, not one such as between us. But we were going to ask for a witness to a new covenant."

Galahad beamed. "I always admired how seriously you two took your vows."

"Excuse me?"

Salazar chuckled. "Godric and I have been friends long, he rescued me when we were children and in our ignorance we took what amounted to an oath of brotherhood, God or magic sealed us."

"Fascinating…" she said in wonderment, her eyes wide and far off.


	6. Soft! Hermione Marcus

A Hermione-Marcus beginning. I don't own anything you recognize. I don't make any profit off of posting this. Almost a one shot, except it feels so unfinished. Hermione is in sports mediwizardry and twitterpates Marcus Flint.

... ... ...

Marcus shook the rain and mud out of his eyes and focused—he was the only beater left fully capable in this scrimmage. And his team was going to win.

Though the Chudley Cannon's had brought up their record and reputation, losing to them in a simple scrimmage was not good for team moral or their own reputation. Even if this was a private event, Marcus was sure that some family in the stands would snitch.

With a snarl he reached out and smacked the bludger away from Casey, giving the relieved team member a nod before chasing the bludger down and directing it to the other team's Chasers.

He pumped his fist when it made the other Chaser swerve, dropping the attempt to harass the Puddlemere Chasers who had the Quaffle.

Puddlemere scored.

Marcus grinned.

One more and they'd win, no matter who caught the Snitch.

"The Snitch!" The announcer cried, Marcus felt his blood freeze, quickly glancing up at the instant replay. With a feral victorious howl he pumped his fist in the air with his teammates as they watched Allens catch the snitch right out from under the opposing seeker's nose.

Ignoring the announcer they did their victory lap before landing to shake hands. Most of the Cannons were good sports about their loss; it was a good clean game. Only two were sulky, the new hire who probably took the loss hard, and Ronald Weasley.

Marcus tightened his jaw and shook the pouting redhead's hand, doing his best to ignore the glare and sulk in what should be a mature man.

The locker room was heady with excitement, the team talking about heading to a pub for a celebration. Marcus decline as he toweled off his hair, putting on his track pants and casual jersey to go talk to the coach.

He planned to see the two team members in the ward. One had been hit with a bludger Marcus hadn't got to in time, and he felt a building tight guilt in his chest. He had to make sure his team member was all right, that he'd play in the next game.

He was the protector on the team—it was his job to make sure the rest could play and do their jobs.

The other beater was in the ward through fault of his own, but Marcus would still check up on him. He was the rookie, and he needed to learn. But to learn he had to be able to play.

Sometimes scrimmages were more violent and dangerous than actual games.

The locker room was empty by the time he had his duffle packed, and he couldn't even hear the team in the halls. Setting his bag against Coaches office, where the room was dark and empty, he set to walk the halls and find coach.

Swiftly was well known for staying hours after a game, going over plays and tidying up their records. He would still be around to be found.

A commotion echoed down the hall, shouts and doors slamming. Marcus snapped his head up just in time for something to turn a corner and slam into him.

Marcus quickly regained his balance and breath, looking down to see a head of riotous curls. His one hand had ended up in those curls, and they were soft and silky, tangling around his fingers as he braced his palm against this witch's back. His other hand had captured her arm, his fingers almost wrapped entirely around her bicep.

He blinked in consternation as the witch sniffled, then clutched at his jersey and started sobbing. He stiffened, feeling the way she leaned into him as if he was the only thing holding her upright. Her sobs were real, and obviously not from running into him.

Marcus scowled and pulled her closer into his chest, rubbing his thumb along her back and searching the halls for anyone to explain this. Whoever this witch was, she'd found his weakness.

He couldn't stand leaving a damsel in distress.

Just as she was getting her breath and sobs under control a wizard stumbled out into the hallway, righting his clothes. Marcus scowled harder at Weasley as he righted his orange jersey. He protectively pulled the witch closer, knowing that the redhead made most situations worse and bumbled things thoroughly.

"Hermione!" Weasley rushed out on a choppy breath as he approached.

The witch in Marcus' hold stiffened, pressing her forehead harder into his chest. Marcus' eyebrows shot up. The witch who'd lost all senses except the instinctive need for comfort and protection was Hermione Granger?

It took a lot to shake the witch who worked the sports injury emergencies at St. Mungos. Wizarding sports were extreme in most cases, and the injuries that did end up at the ward were the worst as most players were too stubborn to accept professional help unless it was very serious.

"Hermione," Weasley had regained his breath, though he was still working on straightening up.

"Go away Ronald," came a watery voice muffled against his jersey.

Marcus blinked and then glared, wrapping his arm tighter around the mediwitch.

Weasley finally straightened, glaring right back. Then another witch came from down the hall, still righting her straps to sit properly under her robes.

Marcus sneered.

"Won-won, I hope you feel better. I remember how much our little comfort sessions helped." She kissed the freckled cheek and then flounced down the hall, a satisfied expression on her face.

Ronald Weasley cleared his throat, "Hermione, what are you doing with Flint? Come on let's go."

Granger made a whimpering noise and shook her head against Marcus, her curls tangling further in his fingers. Marcus growled and tightened his hold on the witch again, stepping slightly to the side in case Weasley tried to grab her.

Weasley scowled—looking pale and petulant. "Hermione! Come on. We're going to be late for dinner."

"No Ronald!" she said in a watery voice, pulling her head up only to look over her shoulder and glare. Marcus stared down, a little impressed, at the tiny witch so obviously heart broken but still defiant.

It was such a contrast to her soft hair and skin, her pale dainty features and feminine clothes…that strength was admirable.

"Hermione," Weasley murmured, mopping a gangly hand down his face. "Really, we can talk about it on the way. We'll get it settled and have a good night yeah?"

Hermione growled.

Marcus almost smiled, his lips twitched briefly instead. That sound was impossibly cute coming from such a little thing still hiding in his arms.

"I don't want to go with you Ronald, I'll make my own plans for tonight."

"With Flint?!" Weasley roared.

Granger sniffled and blinked wet eyelashes as she finally looked up at Marcus, her whiskey eyes taking him in. "Sorry," she mumbled before turning to Weasley. "No, _without_ you. It's no longer your business what I do tonight, or any night for that matter."

"Hermione," Weasley strangled out, torn between rage and despair.

She stuck her chin up. "You were saying we should take our time before committing—that was such a good idea. Now I'm not committed to staying with a wizard who _cheats_!"

"Well I wouldn't bloody well have to if you'd only—!"

"Don't finish that sentence!" she yelled back, her hands gripping Marcus' jersey tighter.

"Men have needs Hermione," Weasley said in a condescending voice.

"_Real_ men treat their witches right," Marcus interjected, making Hermione gasp and crane her neck to look up at him. But he was glaring at Weasley. "Real men," he growled, "keep their word, and respect their witches. I don't see a man in front of me at all."

Weasley stepped forward, squishing Hermione between the two men and getting in Marcus' face. Hermione gasped and pressed further into Marcus. "I don't know what you think butting into our business, Flint. But butt out. You Slytherin trash don't know anything about real men anyway."

Marcus carefully adjusted Hermione so that she was out from between them, putting her behind and slightly to the side of him. He kept his arm in front of her just in case Weasley did something stupid, and he felt her small hands grip the fabric of his sleeve.

"Watch it Weasley, walk away. The lady already made her choice."

"She didn't choose you!" Weasley shrieked, getting right into Marcus' space. "And she's still coming with me! Hermione is mine!"

Hermione made a sound of outrage and pressed forward, but Marcus kept her back.

"She chose to leave you—and your philandering. Get out of here," Marcus growled; hunching his shoulders and getting right back into Weasley's space.

"What's going on here?" came the authoritative voice of the Puddlemere Manager. Swiftly was an older wizard with the ideals of gentry—he'd been the one to spot Marcus, spot something in him, and mentor him on his path to the Puddlemere first string. The wizard had taught him beyond sports too—things the elder Flint should have taught his only son and heir.

"A minor disagreement," Marcus murmured, not wanting to embarrass the witch.

Weasley snarled and undermined that effort, "Flint is stealing my girl! Tell him to get his filthy hands off her!"

Mr. Craven scowled, "Mr. Weasley, witches cannot be _stolen_ as they are not possessions. Ladies make their choices. Miss Granger is also a witch known for her own power and magic—I don't think she'd let anyone _steal_ her."

"We're sorry to be making a scene, Mr. swiftly," Hermione piped up, leaning over Marcus' arm with earnest eyes. "I'll be leaving shortly."

"Hermione!" Weasley shouted and whined in one breath.

She sniffed and tossed her curls, dismissing the redhead. Then she turned those whiskey eyes back up to Marcus, "Thanks for your help, I appreciate it."

Mr. Swiflty started smiling under his moustache as the woman walked the short hallway to the apparition point. Weasley tried to follow her, but Marcus caught him with a firm grip on the back of his neck. The redhead made a fuss, but both Mr. Craven and Marcus waited for the telltale sound of disapparition before letting him go.

The Chudley Cannons Keeper used some inappropriate language before turning on Marcus and Mr. Craven. "Look what you've done! Now I don't know where she's gone and I have reservations tonight!"

With no witch in the vicinity Marcus snarled, "Why don't you get in contact with your floozy then?" He shoved the wizard away from him. "Miss Granger deserves better treatment than that, and she ended it. Only a cad would press her now."

Mr. Swiftly glowered, "Doesn't your team contract forbid scandals like this? I thought the Cannons were doing everything to improve their image…"

Weasley went ruddy with an ugly shade of plum, adjusting his uniform again. "Lav came on to me, it hurts a witch when you say no," he excused himself. "Besides, you men should understand…"

"I don't," Marcus growled, his fists clenching. If he had a witch like Granger, with those soft curls and big eyes, he'd do everything in his power to keep her happy and get rings on her finger.

Weasley snorted, "I doubt you have the issue in the first place."

Mr. Swiftly stepped in before Marcus could lay hands on the berk. "He's famous, wealthy, and educated. But he's a gentleman." At Weasley's blank look he elucidated, "Wizards are meant to protect the modesty of their witches—you'll find no agreement from me about your behavior or opinion. Get cleaned up and out of our stadium, Weasley."

The redhead rolled his eyes and grumbled but did so.

Marcus flexed his tense fingers, breathing out slowly. He still struggled with his more violent tendencies, and Weasley pressed more than a few of his triggers.

He mastered himself and looked up, only to spot Mr. Swiftly smiling and stroking his beard. Marcus straightened and frowned, considering his mentor.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

Mr. swiftly snorted a laugh, "Aren't you going to go see to the witch?"

"…she apparated away."

"The sports mediwizardly contact for today was Miss Granger. The assigned mediwizard or witch is required to file reports in the office after the game—we had three serious injuries…"

Marcus blinked and straightened.

"Well?"

Marcus grinned and nodded sharply, then spun on his heel and walked the short hallway to the apparition point. From there he apparated to the other side of the stadium and walked to the medical office.

Sure enough, the door was ajar with spell light glowing from within. And the distinctive mutterings of an angry witch came through. Marcus cleared his throat and knocked before pushing the door open (never surprise an already angry witch).

Hermione looked up, her quill in hand.

He nodded his head and stepped in—"Miss Granger."

"Mr. Flint."

"Are you alright?"

She laughed, "Fine. It's not the first time he's embarrassed me."

Marcus scowled.

She blinked at him with her doe eyes and tilted her head. Her curly hair swung over her shoulder, and Marcus' gaze fixed on it—he wanted to tangle his fingers in the spirals again. "Did you need something Mr. Flint?"

He cleared his throat and snapped his eyes back to hers. "I wanted to check on my teammates…and apologize.'

"Well your teammates are jus—what?" She started with a pleased smile and then her eyes went wide.

Marcus stared into the fascinating amber color before clearing his throat and scratching his neck. "I…I wanted to apologize," he began slowly, thinking through his words.

"Marcus, whatever for?" she asked in a concerned tone.

He grumbled. "I didn't react fast enough."

"In the game? From what I saw you are an amazing Beater, you do your job of protecting your teammates. I'm sure they'd agree—" she started to work herself up.

He grinned and leaned forward with his palms on her desk. She stuttered to a stop and stared right into his eyes. He couldn't help it—she'd been watching him. She'd been impressed. It was a start. "I mean in the hallway," he clarified.

Apparently the witch had already switched her consideration entirely on to work and needed to be reminded. That was almost cute—that single-minded focus.

"Oh…again though, I don't see any reason to apologize. In fact I'm so sorry I just clutched on to you like that and you had to witness the whole thing. That was terribly awful of me…"

"Hermione," he murmured, ducking his head a little to catch her eyes. "I should have stopped Weasley sooner instead of letting him embarrass you. You were in distress, I should have stepped in."

She swallowed and sat up straighter. Then she cleared her throat and her eyes flicked to her paperwork. "I am a capable witch, Mr. Flint…"

"You are…but that doesn't mean you should face your trials alone."

Hermione sucked in a slow shaky breath and bit her lip, her eyes darting between his and examining him. Then she whispered very quietly, "Thank You."

Marcus smiled and gestured with his head over to the side ward—where his teammates were resting for the last of the potions affects. She smiled and he felt her eyes on him as he walked through the door and rumbled a greeting to Smithson.

When he had finished visiting Hermione was bent over her paperwork, quill furiously working to fill out the many forms to document the game's injuries. Marcus quietly left her to it with a small salute when she briefly looked up.


	7. Future King--Hermione ArthurPendragon

No own, no profit. But lots of fun!

A Hermione-Arthur Pendragon (of traditional yore) story. Yes in the same Arthuriana class I had a brainstorm. Then it fizzled. Hermione is my favourite leading lady, I wanted to see what I could do with a well loved King of Yore.

...

...

Arthur refused to take interest, stuck in this strange version of Avalon and limbo while he waited for the end of times.

So much for the return of the king.

Stuck in this curious state of nonexistent existence, he managed to ignore most of the other fey and spirits as they competed for his attention. One Albus Dumbledore, descendent of Merlin and almost as powerful, was slightly harder to ignore.

The grey haired coot did, after all, manage to transport him to some ephemeral plane in the wizarding world—a dark gothic sick room for a pale man.

That was the first time in all his years since his first death that King Arthur looked at another occupant of the next plane.

"And what cause is there for this?' he inquired lazily.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled and he gestured to the man. "I figured it was high time someone gave you reason to want to unite all of Britain again. The magical world could certainly use your guidance."

Arthur's lazy eyes rolled back to the dour looking man, "And this page is supposed to encourage my affection for the people?"

Dumbledore shook his head, "Professor Snape might not, but I am certainly expecting Miss Granger to draw your attention."

Arthur's eyes flashed and his nostrils flared in anger. _A woman!?_ They expected a woman to be the cause of his concern? After Guinevere? Ha! It would be a cold day in hell before he besmirched his honor on another such foolish notion as love.

In his furious ruminations, Arthur failed to realize that the simple mention of this Miss Granger had awakened his mind from the stupor it had been in for all those centuries.

Still he found himself stuck watching that pale man in the dark room, maintained in the curious no-state that meant no other being could interact with him.

And it was because he was stuck in that state and watching that room that he had to watch Miss Granger.

As his interest in her grew, he started to interact more with the world, his vision returning to that plane so colors and light filtered into the scene, and then scents and sounds followed until he was almost a compete voyeur in this little room with these two people.

Because Miss Hermione Jean Granger was nursing her Professor back from poison, engaging him in intellectual debate and caring for wounds of the body and heart.

She was a curious young lady, and so over the months the Once King Arthur became curiouser and curiouser. His interest grew to such an extent that his senses became as if he were living in the room with them, hearing the house groan and creak and listening to the daily lives of the other occupants.

And that was how he heard the fights.

Miss Granger fought with two men, defensive and shrill in the face of their accusations. Still, she continued to give care.

If Arthur hadn't become so involved in the two little lives in the gothic room he might have sneered and agreed with the angry young man that accused her of lust, betraying her chastity for the dour man.

But he watched them, and she doted but neither occupant indicated such an intimate relationship.

And then one day she entered with her head low after one such screaming match; her hands were shaky on the tray of medicine and food she carried.

Snape was struggling to sit up straighter, looking at her with thinly veiled concern. Arthur too tried to lean forward and see if she were crying.

But neither man caught a glimpse until, when she was setting the tray over the sick man's lap, Snape managed to reach out and slide her hair behind her small ears.

Both man hissed breath in through their teeth.

Arthur, particularly enraged, barely noticed as he felt his own clothing, and the solid ground under his feet, and the breeze from the window cool on his skin.

"He struck you?" the dark man hissed in anger, his face swimming between shocked concern and anger.

"I retrieved some dittany," she murmured quietly.

Arthur growled.

She gasped and spun, her wand in her hand as she crouched low over Snape and her gaze flitted immediately to the door that she so diligently locked and warded whenever she entered.

Instead of a redheaded Weasley, she found a redheaded man in the vestments of a renaissance King.

Snape struggled upright, his own wand slipping from his sleeve.

Hermione's wide eyes darted between both men, her nerves shot between protecting the one and hiding from the other.

Arthur swallowed and raised his hands, turning his wrists to display his lack of armaments. "I intend no harm unto you, rather I wish to protect."

Snape's face sneered, his dark eyes cold and glittering. Lady Granger tucked herself further towards the bed, a strangled sound in her throat as she stared at him.

Arthur swallowed again, keeping his hands up though the blood was rapidly rushing down the restored limbs. His heart beat a little faster and he closed his eyes. "I did not mean to startle you, and I only wish to help you. Please at least let me do that."

The Once and Future King, begging. How Guinevere would have revelled in this. But Lady Hermione didn't. She gave him those unsure bronze eyes, her body trembling still, and then she gave a little cry and her legs collapsed under her. Snape rushed to hold her arms, barely managing to keep her from hitting the floor.

Arthur Pendragon strode forward swiftly, carefully grasping her waist and hand in his and gently lifting her to place her on the bedside chair she usually occupied.

Her tremors increased into her hands, and she sat there shivering and looking absolutely miserable and scared.

"You silly chit, you didn't take your potions." The professor snarled as he struggled to sit up more.

Hermione, teeth chattering, responded lightly. "I was running a little behind, I must have forgotten to retrieve them."

Arthur glared and turned to the door. Hermione strangled a gasp behind him, and Snape growled, but the Future King calmly walked through her enchantments, down the hall, over the stairs and into the kitchen.

A redheaded man sat at the table, his head in his hands. A raven was comforting him the way men of this time did, awkwardly and uselessly. Arthur sneered and set his stance.

The sound of his boots planting on the hard wood alerted the two men and they glanced up hopefully. Then they rushed to stand and face the stranger.

"I need Lady Hermione's potions, if you could point me the way. She's missing her usual dose." His voice was a growl, his glare pointed and brilliant.

The raven paled. But the redhead stood up straighter, his flashing eyes and stunned expression disgusted. "Who the hell are you?!"

Pendragon sneered, his hazel eyes flashing to the raven as he crisply spoke again, "The potion."

The male wearily got up, but swiftly went about collecting the vial from a cabinet. He made to leave, carry the potion up the stairs, but Arthur stepped his whole bulk into his way.

The green-eyed man startled and drew back, the chariness returning and his hand sneaking to his wand.

"I shall take it to her."

"The hell you will!" the one said and stood harshly.

"I will, she has refuge now." Then with quick magic the tonic was in his hands and he was marching back up the stairs and through the labrynthine halls. The redhead was shouting, and the raven hissing curses, but they couldn't get passed his barrier.

He smirked and then shook his head to clear the expression.

He returned to a room to find the occupants in much the same situation as he'd left them in. Hermione was doing her best to stay properly seated, but her tremors and shake were making it a difficult task.

Lord Snape had carefully sat and was doing his utmost to brace the lady up, but his injury and bedrest combined to help little. Arthur strode in quickly, re-warding her magic and the door.

"Allow me," he murred as he kneeled aside her and braced her against the chair properly. Snape carefully recovered his own position on the bed, stopping his chastisements of the female.

With one hand he uncorked the vial and carefully held it up to her as he swirled it and let her judge its purity. As he grasped the back of her neck through her piles of curls he tilted it and helped her imbibe the magic drink.

Her bronze eyes were focused on him intently even as her tremors eased to the occasional shake and her form relaxed into his bracing hold.

He carefully transfigured the chair she sat in to a lounger appropriate for her rest while in the presence of unattached males. Then he turned to address Snape only to find the man's dark eyes on him focusedly.

"And who might this new saviour be?" the old professor asked in a sarcastic drawl.

Arthur quirked a smile in reply. "Lord Snape, do forgive my abrupt entry to your chambers. I had not thought it was possible for me to return to this plane in such a manner."

Hermione gasped slightly, turning in the chair and shifting until she could brace herself for more upright conversation. "Who are you?" she asked softly.

And it was this inquiry that prompted Pendragon to answer. He clipped his heels to the floor and braced a fist over his heart as he bowed to the lady. Looking up in his bow, admiring her gentle face, he grinned. "Arthur Pendragon, at your will my lady. "

She gasped again and her eyes widened.

Snape groaned and fell back into his pillow. "I had thought it was Potter that drew the nonsensical to him, Miss Granger. And yet here I find you equally at fault."

Hermione's face clouded in consternation, her brow furrowed and lips pouted and pursed. She turned to her professor sternly, "I have nothing to do with this! He showed up in _your_ chambers Professor, it might be that _you_ are entirely to blame for our little surprise!" Then she instantly turned contrite and faced the Once King, "Not that you are unwelcome, Mr. Pendragon."

Arthur chuckled, his eyes sparkling. "Thank you, lady, but I understand your reticence. You are recovering from war…" he hesitated and took a glance at her blooming cheek.

She blushed.

He left it unsaid that they were still fighting, but now for the ideals they held dear. And he admired her for fighting now when she was so weary, for she was fighting for fairness and second chances.

Hermione cleared her throat and shook the essence of dittany, turning slightly from the men to look at her reflection in the glass of the window. The men left her a fascimile of privacy, turning to each other but each eyeing her obliquely.

"How was it that you found Miss Granger," Snape questioned silkily.

Hermione grumped but otherwise remained still, carefully reaching up and touching the colors on her cheekbone.

Arthur tilted his head up, "I was placed here to watch you, and then she cared for your wounds. Merlin's descendant was insistent I learn to love this world again."

Snape scoffed. "Learn to love this world in the sick room of a cynic and his nursemaid. Your idea of the world must be very poor and small indeed."

Hermione made a sound, a soft small one, as she pressed the dittany onto her skin and smoothed it in.

Arthur grinned. "Your conversation was rich and stimulating…and you have a very lovely nursemaid."

Hermione gasped and choked, turning to look at them with a bright blush.

Snape unbent enough for his eyes to twinkle.

Hermione huffed and glared. "Really, there's no need to tease."

"Pardon my lady, I meant no offense. I admire your faith in the goodness of this world; it has renewed my hope in that happy ideal as well."

Snape leaned back into his pillows, propped up and eyeing him. "So it was truly our Miss Granger that brought you back from the veil."

Arthur bowed his head. "I believe it is, though I confess to not fully understanding the magics at work."

"You have waited a long time to return." Snape gave him an inscrutable searching look, and then continued, "If the legends are true then you have your work cut out for you. The old ways have been forgotten, the way is lost."

Arthur swallowed. "I can feel the damage, magic is crying out."

"Excuse me, sorry, you're speaking of the true old ways? The ones that the druids struggle to maintain?"

"Yes, the sentient magic of old that needed understanding and respect. I grew up with that magic, and now it is shut out from the hearts of all magic users. It needs to be welcomed again."

Her eyes sparkled and she leaned forward a bit. "This is amazing, what does that magic feel like?"

Arthur, entranced by her enthusiasm and brightness, smiled. "It feels like a nice breeze on a sunny day, the sound of the leaves and grass on your walk, the smell of fresh pine and new days."

Her eyes fluttered closed and she tiled her head to the side, a little sigh escaping her.

Arthur smiled wider.

Snape cleared his throat and eyed him, meeting his gaze directly with a stern expression.

The Once and Future King winked at the man. Snape huffed and lay back in his pillows, pulling the tray Hermione had originally brought in closer to him. With care he set about feeding himself, the venom of the dark lord's familiar still potent in his veins.

Hermione came to herself and watched him with a little worry, but did not impose on the man's independence to inquire. Instead she turned to Arthur, "This is so exciting, what do you plan?"

Arthur shrugged and settled his stance. "Nothing grand, I will try to heal the magics without exposing myself—this will give all users a wake up call certainly. If it comes to it I will step out and call them back to their roots."

Snape laughed cynically, "You'll have to met the public. They are a bunch of lily-livered dunderheads who'll need leadership. And as soon as they understand the gravity of your presence you'll be inundated with brown nosers and vapid witches."


	8. Night Light--Harmony

A sort of AU where Harry doesn't end up at Hogwarts in traditional way or in the traditional time. Still, he does end up in the hallowed halls, and he finds his mate.

I don't own anything you recognize from JK Rowling's work.

...

The Black Panther prowled along the forest edge catching the scent in his flaring nostrils before snorting and eyeing the vast open grasslands that preceded the castle.

The alluring scent was there, playing in the wind on the way to those doors.

He'd just missed his prize.

He licked his whiskers and growled lowly, his head lowering until he could gaze along the grass and try to scent where the female had been closest.

It was a tree, old and knotted with wear. But her scent rested heavily under its strong boughs, its sheltering leaves. He twisted his neck and paced a few steps closer, barely daring to expose himself from the shadows.

He let out a hissing cough when a harsh wind scattered her scent.

But he'd wait—she frequented this area, she'd be back.

…

He growled and paced, his heavy paws making no sound even though his claws were bared and ground up the loamy forest floor.

The scent was mocking him.

Every time he caught the scent its strength was higher, almost warm with the possibility of nearness. But he never caught sight of the female.

It was as if something was keeping her away, some being guarding her from him.

But she was meant for him—her scent was calling him—her warmth was welcoming him.

She'd be his soon enough.

…

The black cat's muscles rolled as he approached the stream, cursorily glancing about though no other animal would be present. This was his territory; he was the predator and the king of this forest area. No one challenged him and no one ever would.

He was supreme.

He sighed and suddenly where once was beast now stood a man. Heavy muscles rolled on a compact frame, skin scarred but smooth—not puckered from the violence of his life.

He remembered before, when he'd always been human. It had been cruel and frightening and so very dark. Even after escaping, becoming one with the night and running as far and as fast as he could, it was still brutal.

He lived in a vicious world—but he preferred the jungle of now to the horror of before.

His body was a canvas of his struggles, but he was proud he'd become strong.

And now his mate was calling to him—she'd be his bright spot, his light and love and welcome. His due after all he'd gone through.

He'd spoil his light, care for her and protect her and welcome her into his world as surely as she liberated him from it.

….

His breath caught and his whiskers twitched, his patrol of the forest abruptly halted as he bounded off to the edges.

It was fresh—the mark was fresh!

He skidded along the forest leaves and grasses as he approached the edge, caution making him quiet and wary.

It wouldn't do to startle her away—especially if there was something guarding her from him.

But he would overcome it—she was meant for him and nothing would stand in his way.

His bright green eyes peered through the growth, settling on the now familiar tree but the very unfamiliar (unfamiliar but so very welcome) figure beneath it. She was dressed in the robes like the others, dark cloth emblazoned with the crest of the school he stalked around.

He was pleased with the red color lining her clothes—the boldness of it seemed to emphasize how soft and fair her skin was. He was also pleased with how much she covered up—especially compared to the other females he'd seen prancing about the grassland.

She was modest, her body was made only for him to enjoy.

And he'd enjoy it soon enough.

He breathed deeply, taking in her scent and loving the earthy musk mixed with the budding delicacy of fresh rain. And a hint of pine—his whiskers twitched and his eyes flared.

His eyes traced her hands, where they held the book she was intently studying, all the way to the wild mane of her hair as it engulfed her shoulders and hid her neck.

If he was human at that moment he would have grinned—for such a small thing her hair certainly took up enough space to make up for her lack of presence. (He couldn't wait to bury his hands in it and drag her face to his for a taste of those lips.)

He carefully watched, waiting for the moment when she'd lift her face so he could study it openly instead of guessing the features hidden by her mane.

He wanted to know if her eyes were as wild as her hair, if her face and expression were as delicate as the rest of her. He wanted to see her.

A paw slid along the soil before he took a step, cautiously inching to the last edge of shrub to get a closer look.

A loud feline yowl interrupted his approach, but the female he'd been studying looked up at the orange half-breed as it barreled along the lawn away from some other laughing students.

Harry hissed and lowered his weight.

The laughing males quieted and started strolling towards the female.

She had gathered the feline in her arms, stroking down his bristled fur even as she fumbled to pick up her books. His green eyes narrowed as she stood and slipped around to the other side of the tree, away from the approaching humans.

His whiskers twitched as the other feline hissed, looking over a fine shoulder at the students who had stopped and jeered at the back of his female.

He snarled loudly at the trio, and they turned sharply to the woods even as he slinked back into the shadows.

It appeared that he wasn't what the female was being guarded from, and that incited him to move up his plans.

He needed to get closer, to protect—and to do that he'd have to be human.

It wouldn't be so hard—those large brown eyes, earthy and warm, would be watching him.

And he'd get to teach those males a lesson about treating females—especially _his_ female—in such a manner as to frighten them away from pleasant company.

…

He carefully prowled along the edge of the woods, snarling at the students who managed to catch sight of him and startle. It was rather fun, this part of his plan.

He wanted to slowly become a common sight—soon enough a teacher would come to investigate. And then he'd be discovered for what he truly was. And any responsible adult would insist he attend the institution.

He would be close to his light.

But it was hard to keep away now that he'd seen her, now that he'd attached the scent of her to the image of her.

It was especially hard when she bled off her fertile cycle. The rich scent made his whiskers twitch.

But for now he'd have to wait.

As he watched a student frantically pointing in the direction of the forest while talking to a professor he grinned. At least it wouldn't be a long wait.

…

The three adults that came to investigate waved their lit wands about uselessly. He snarled as they invaded his carved out territory before he stalked forward and revealed himself from the shadows only to disappear on the other side of the path.

The trio stopped.

He watched the grey one raise his wand and call out, "We mean you no harm. We are simply worried the students are seeing so much of you."

His whiskers twitched in amusement. A low growl left his lips as he took a half step out of the leaves, his eyes large and glowing in their cast light.

The woman let out a gasp and clutched her brooch, the tartan of her robes shifting oddly. The last dark one, sour looking and angry, clenched his fingers around his wand.

The silver one smiled. "I am Professor Dumbledore, thank you for meeting us."

A snort escaped his lips, but he simply pawed the ground. This was a strange human, but powerful. His light was brightest of the three.

"I was wondering why we never knew you occupied our lands—"

Harry's snarl cut him off—these were _his_ lands! Taken and fought over until he could guard and rest as he saw fit!

The trio backed up a step.

"I meant no offense."

"Albus," the woman whispered with a brogue, "this is no ordinary animal."

"Quite right Minerva, which is why we are conversing with it." The woman sent the silver man a dark glare even as a slight smirk pulled at the sour man's mouth.

Harry sat heavily on his haunches. They were all equally strange, maybe it wasn't such a good idea…but then the wind shifted and the pine trees cast down their scent. It was enough of a reminder of his female that he firmed his resolve.

He _needed_ his mate, his light.

He snorted and cut into their argument by transforming. It was strange being human in front of other humans again, a feeling much like vulnerability even though he knew he could overcome them should they decide to attack.

He flipped his hair from his eyes so he could take in their responses, his form tensing up as theirs did.

"I see," said the silver one.

The two others gaped.

"Would you like to carry out this conversation at a more comfortable venue? I have some rather loudly beckoning chairs in my office, and some tea would certainly hit the spot." Harry watched as the silver man slowly turned and started trudging his way back to the castle.

The woman hesitated but moved to follow, and only Harry and the sour man remained.

Harry worked his jaw as he watched this quiet one, but otherwise made no move. The man lifted a dark eyebrow and quirked up one side of his mouth in a humorless expression. Harry nodded his head in concession.

He was going into their territory after all.

As he moved to pass the man a long arm snapped in front of him to stop his advance. Harry snarled and jumped back.

The man followed him with his eyes, otherwise unmoving.

Then he removed his outer robes and thrust the cloth out to Harry. His green eyes took in the heavy drape being offered him and raised a put out expression as he took the cloth.

The man smirked—"Best not to startle the rest of the faculty and whatever wayward student finds themselves in the halls," he spoke in a nasal, heavy voice.

Harry glowered as he draped the cloth over his bare shoulders, thankful for their breadth because they took up enough of the cloth that he wasn't tripping on it. He would have looked like a fool otherwise, with how tall the man was.

He sighed and trudged to follow the other two professors.

The dark man followed a reasonable distance behind, not interfering with his space or his cautious perusal of the grounds.

…

Harry settled into the school fairly simply. He had lessons after supper to work on his writing and reading, but magic came fairly easy to him. And he had no need for that silly wand.

The only trouble was that this made him doubly the novelty for the students.

It's not like he could immediately approach her and tell her she was his mate.

Well, he could. But it probably wouldn't get him anywhere.

He slowly started changing his habits so he was more in her line of sight, invading her comfort zones until she had gotten used to him. He sat near her in the library, close by her at supper, in the common room—he even was playing with Crookshanks one time when she walked into the tower (though that had been purely coincidental it certainly helped him, he'd noticed how the cat hissed and avoided everyone else).

Hermione, for that was her name, had noticed it too.

Her eyes had been suspicious but the whiskey color had slowly warmed the more she got used to him.

…

He noticed a lot about Hermione. He hoped those little glances were evidence that she was noticing a lot about him in return.

…

For all his careful planning and observations, Harry saw it as confirmation by fate that their first true meeting happened so naturally. He was simply prowling the halls, making sure they were safe (especially safe for her in her favorite routes, safe from those boys and that vapid bitch), when he rounded a corner and she rounded a corner.

It was fate that is was the same corner.

Harry was sure of it.

Because she was his.

At their collision her scent rose in his nose, his nostrils flared at pine and earthy musk and fresh rain. Stray curls swept forward over her cheeks and her eyes widened before closing.

Harry, solid, remained completely upright and unaffected.

"I apologize," she said absently, struggling to secure her books before they toppled out of her arms. Harry's hands helped her, settling the books and remaining against them until she raised her whiskey eyes to his.

She immediately blushed.

Harry blinked and smiled slightly, just a slight upturn of his lips, because he liked that color on her cheeks. The pale rose imbued her flesh with a liveliness like that of her hair—implied passion and emotion. And the miniscule freckles normally so unobtrusive were highlighted to the best effect.

She cleared her throat.

Harry blinked.

Whiskey eyes darted to one side before darting back up to his, he continued his solid gaze on her face, and his hands remained on her books.

"I…thank you," she meekly squeaked out before clearing her throat.

Harry smiled, slowly releasing his hold on her books. "You're welcome," he said simply, watching as she blushed some more ducking her head before she scuttled around him and continued on her way.

….In the library, just three days after that first encounter, Harry reached over her to grab the book she was unsuccessfully stretching for.

…In class, her quill drifted off her desk into the aisle between them. Harry leaned over to retrieve it and extend it to her, trailing the feathers along her palm before releasing it to her grasp.

…In the Great Hall he paused but sat beside her anyway—meeting her wide doe eyes as she truned away form her book that had so successfully sheltered her before.

He grinned and started to load his plate—as if this was all perfectly normal.

…

On the grounds, finally, near her favorite tree, he approached with Crookshanks. Hermione gave him an inscrutable look, but, after staring at her familiar for a bit, she accepted his approach with none of her previous wariness.

….

…Time passes…[AN: which I have not filled in yet.]

…

"It was damaged by a troll in first year—smashed to pulp. We had a hard time healing it to that stage, I'm thankful I have any mobility in it at all." As if seeing his furious gaze she continued lowly, "Its fine, I only sit and read anyway," she finished blithely.

He held back a grimace and rested his hand over the heavily scarred joint. She swallowed and looked away.

"I am sorry," he gruffly whispered, too choked to modulate his voice so that it resembled his human tone rather than his panther's rumble.

Her wide eyes snapped to his, but she didn't say anything. She swallowed again and then closed her eyes, a little smile twisting up the edges of her lips. "Thank you then, but there isn't much you could have done."

Harry closed his eyes and quietly disagreed. When he opened his eyes his gaze was locked on the damaged flesh surrounding her knee, the heavy scars and discolored skin that spoke of a fatal injury. It wasn't that he found it ugly—no his mate was not marred by this sign of her strength—but it was that he understood, had he been there, this would have never happened to her.

He would have protected her.

It was sobering that, while he was enjoying his freedom in his territory, his chosen mate was suffering.

Hw turned swiftly and lifted his sweater off, following that with his tie and undoing some shirt buttons (the slippery things he still struggled with) before Hermione had spluttered out a coherent sentence.

"Harry! What are you doing?"

He glanced at her to see her sat quite straight—a stark contrast to her previously relaxed position and he offered her a grin before shelving his efforts and pulling the shirt off the top of his head.

Her sharp gasp was his evidence that she'd discovered the purpose of his actions.

A tentative hand, feeling quite small and inconsequential, pressed into his shoulder blade—yet Harry shivered with that instinctive cat sense that something pivotal was going to happen.

"Before I was with the Night, I was with them. They didn't like me much."

Then, Harry drew in his own sharp gasp as he felt two warm and soft lips brush lightly against the top of his spine.

A shudder made its way from his heart through his body, and he relaxed back into Hermione as she gently hugged him from behind.

….


	9. The Cat Came Back--Hermione Marcus

I don't own, you don't sue.

There is this idea floating around about hidden animangus, and I wanted to play with it too.

...

Marcus Flint was smarter than he let on. He did enjoy Quidditch, and wrestling, and he didn't like to say much-so a lot of people assumed he didn't have much to say. No, early on in life he'd learned it was always best to keep your mouth shut. It was always best to lay low, be as unattractive to attention as possible.

So only his best mate had any suspicions.

He'd broken his own nose as a kid, looking for a way to stop his mother fussing about his looks and contemplating betrothal contracts with a perfect pureblood princess. By the time she'd realized he'd been injured the bones had set. That was taken care of.

His father had been a bit trickier. Flint couldn't truly upset the man, so it was a good thing he participated in Quidditch and manly pursuits. If he was repudiated then what little protection he had from his damnable heritage was moot.

It wasn't considered proper for a power to approach a scion of a noble house until they were of age.

And Marcus had spent most his life becoming as unattractive as possible to the powers that be at the moment.

Except he'd caught the whispers. His parents were discussing Voldemort recruiting him still.

So he planned and hid.

He was smart—and powerful. His animangus form finally slinked off into the night with a charmed pouch around its neck.

He had planned to hide in Hogwarts—so many familiars about meant that he'd blend in. He hadn't planned on this ginger half breed approaching.

'Mrowr? I've been waiting, why did you take so long?'

Marcus blinked and tilted his dark head. 'You've been waiting?'

'Mistress is so lonely, you've almost took too long. Well, come on.'

Marcus ducked his head and followed. If only out of curiosity.

The cat led him through several secret passages and up several stairwells. A suspicion grew in Marcus' mind—and he was proven right when they waltzed easily through the garishly decorated common room of Gryffindor House.

Marcus scowled as they left the crowded and rowdy space to ascend a set of stairs. The lot of the Gyffindors were rambunctious and had almost stepped on the two multiple times. He didn't understand how this ginger survived.

His scowl deepened when the cloying smell of perfumes entered his nose. He sneezed and twitched his whiskers. But he still followed the cat into a dorm room with three beds, the first messy bed had cosmetics and magazines scattered on it, the desk beside it overtaken with perfumes. The second bed was a little more neatly made, but magazines and beauty spell books littered the desk.

As soon as he stepped near the third bed he stopped. He blinked and twitched his nose, sniffing the air.

Huh.

'_Mrowr?'_

'_It smells nice over here.'_

The Ginger yawned and sat. _'Mistress hates the scents they use—a charm makes the air fresh.'_

It did smell fresh, and also like vanilla and cinnamon…

So the duo set out again and rounded the bed to see the desk. Everything was neat over this end of the room, and smelled so good, and then he saw the witch lounging on her four poster with the curtains half drawn to shield her from the rest of the room.

!Hermione Granger!

Now, Marcus had nothing against the brilliant witch, in fact he was quite smitten with her. Which made this all the more awkward for him.

"Crooks?" the witch questioned in her quiet voice—this was the low velvet voice he'd only heard twice before that made him melt. Every other time she was tense and nervous and trying to keep her best friends in line.

"Mreow."

Her amber eyes blinked and then turned to him where he still sat frozen and stunned.

She smiled and leaned forward, reaching for him and drawing him up onto her lap.

If he could blush under his black fur he was certain he was. Soft…

"Well aren't you handsome, but what are you doing following my Crookshanks? Won't your witch or wizard miss you?"

He closed his eyes while she rubbed his ears between her fingers. So gently. He murred and leaned into her touch, ending up pressed into her stomach and against her breasts.

Her laugh breathed over his face, and he blinked one eye open lazily to look up at her.

"Well, if that's how you feel. I shan't object to you staying. Just watch out for my room mates, they don't understand the concept of boundaries."

_What?_

She hummed and cuddled him to her as she twisted to go back to her essay. Marcus was in heaven, and sent the ginger a thankful '_cheers'_ before he settled for a nap.

Crookshanks hopped up to the foot of the bed, curling up and watching the dorm entry—he guarded his mistress well, but she needed something of a more cuddling nature. He could hardly put up with her when she was in her playful moods. He was a protector, not a teddy bear. The other animal would help—he cast canny eyes back. The other animal would also help with some other things, when the time was right.

Hopefully that was soon.

Marcus yawed with a curl of his rough tongue, blinking up at the two giggling smelly witches entering the bedroom. They spotted Hermione where she'd moved to sit at her desk, their eyes lighting up and smirks building.

"Hermione! We didn't expect you to be here."

"Yes, everyone else is enjoying the party. Ron is even dancing with Romilda Vane."

The blonde looked slightly put out and shot a dark glance at the Indian witch. Hermione didn't see it—she had ducked her head down and focused intently on her essay.

"Well, we just came up to touch up our makeup—the boys are waiting for us."

"Perhaps one might be missing you?"

"Lavender! Don't tease her so, you know she needs to study."

Marcus scowled and lowered his head, eyeing these witches. It wasn't just their smell that left a bad taste in his mouth.

Lavender sighed and flounced into her cushioned desk chair, picking through the makeup. "I suppose. Well, she does need to keep her grades up to have something going for her in any rate. It's too bad—with a little...well a lot of work she _might_ actually catch a wizard's eye."

The other witch snorted and tossed her dark hair. "Yes, but it wouldn't be a wizard of worth, if you get my meaning. She needs to study—her only hope for fulfillment is her grades!"

Hermione tilted her head and blinked at her essay, making a show of finishing her sentence with a flourish.

Marcus felt all of his raging magic pressing against his animangus form. But it would be really really bad to transform now! Even if it would shut the other two gormless bitches up. He hissed at the witches and twisted on Hermione's lap to better face them, glaring out with glowing eyes as Crookshanks also hissed from underneath the bed.

The witches just renewed their laughter after a pause. "Well at least her cat is a Tom! She gets some male attention at least!"

"Pavarti don't be crude!" Lavender laughed, pausing from using some contraption on her eyelashes. "The cat...cats are only there because she feeds them!"

Pavarti laughed and put down her lipstick, smoothing out her robes as she stood and giving a twirl for the mirror. Then she sashayed over to Hermione's side of the room, leaning over her bed and teasing. "Hermione, however did you get another cat? I thought you couldn't afford even proper witches robes—poor thing stuck in those muggle rags and the school robes. Tsk."

Then she blinked and reached forward to touch the velvet book resting on the bed.

Her pretty made up face twisted into ugliness as she shrieked—for Crookshanks had launched himself with a hiss, digging his claws into her ankles and quickly jumping up to guard the bed. She stumbled backwards in her heels, making a disgusted face at the cat as it bared its fangs.

Marcus murred his own agreement with the sentiment, and even Hermione had turned to watch.

Pavarti wailed about the claws down her stockings and the faint bleeding scratches she had to tend now. Both witches gave Hermione disapproving looks as they quickly fixed up the mess and flounced from the room.

Hermione sighed, breaking her stillness to pet Marcus down the whole length of his body and smile at Crookshanks.

Marcus shivered at the full body sensation, a purr rumbling up.

"Well Crooks, defender of the four poster, I commend you on your valour in action," she spoke with some humour, though her face was tight. The ginger tom cat stuck his nose up in the air and batted at the scent of some lingering perfume.

Hermione laughed and with a flick of her empty hand and graceful fingers Marcus smelled the refreshingly clean scent of her domain. The vanilla and cinnamon, of course, came from the witch herself.

"Once Again, Granger Domain is held secure—good job." She opened a drawer in her desk and Marcus watched the excited Crookshanks bound over, taking the yummy smelling treat from her hands and eating it daintily.

Marcus scowled, but then a treat was offered him, "For protecting my lap, new Knight," and he took the time to eat it while she held it. This gave him the opportunity to lick her skin thoroughly, bathing her with his tongue. Delicious. Both the treat and her fingers.

Marcus watched the way Hermione finished her essay and carefully staked out her claim on the portion of the room that was hers. His cat eyes narrowed in satisfaction—she was possessive. Good. It was highly rewarding to court a witch who was equally invested in staking a claim.

He got another treat that night, Crookshanks apparently liked the foot of the bed, so Marcus got to cuddle up right to her chest. If he was a wizard his pleased expression would not have gone unnoticed.

The two toms followed her into the common room the next morning, taking seats in front of the fire as she organized her book bag.

'_So you will patrol with her?'_ Crookshanks murred, licking his paw and cleaning his face.

Marcus blinked and stretched. _'I will not leave her side.'_

'_Good, Mrowr. I need to guard the den. The harpies will try something after last night.'_

Marcus smiled, _Harpies indeed._

So the ginger disappeared back up the stair case, flicking his bottle brush tail as he moved out of sight.

Marcus wove around her ankles, but then she picked him up and cuddled into his fur, pushing her bag to the side to kiss his face and nuzzle his nose. He might have blushed, unused to such affection.

But she sighed and drew away slightly, and her pretty whiskey eyes were just inches from his. "I suppose we'll have to let you go find your witch. I can't keep you even if I want to." She pouted at him, "You are so handsome and cuddly though. Some part of me hopes no one recognizes you."

Marcus had never thought to actually bond with a witch while he was here, to complete his familiar persona. Hermione was brilliant. And he'd just _have_ to bond with her.

"Hermione," a sleepy male voice murmured.

Marcus pinned his ears back and cut his eyes to the other staircase, seeing the stumbling duo nursing hangovers as they made their way to her.

"You gotta help us!"

Hermione blinked and scowled. "It's Saturday, I don't have to do anything."

Potter finally collapsed in the chair beside her, alcohol still heavy on his breath. His green eyes were panicked. "But we have that detention with Flitwick! And you know one condition is to have all previous homework done!"

Ah yes, the Ravenclaw Head of House very rarely gave out detentions, and when he did he ensured that it didn't interfere with schooling. Bring your homework so he would check you were well along before he punished you. Of course, if you weren't well along—the punishment would be worse after he watched you finish every parchment.

"Well then you should have done them last night," she responded cattily.

Weasley groaned and mopped a hand over his face, "Not so loud, geez." He muttered something that would have several matrons scandalized. "You know we had a House party last night. "

Hermione stuck her nose in the air, an eyebrow arched condescendingly.

"Ron," Potter groaned and flopped his head onto the coffee table. "Hermione, please. I already feel so horrible."

Marcus literally felt her wavering. He scowled and cuddled into her.

"I don't like always doing your work for you," she said firmly.

The ginger wizard laughed, "Come on Hermione, I know you ditched the party last night to do your own essays. Just because we have fun with everyone else doesn't mean you should take out your frustration on us. We're your best mates!"

Potter turned his head, fixing a pitiful look on the witch.

Hermione sighed and deflated. "Yes, though Heaven knows why I stick around you two! What do you have?"

They happily brought out their parchments, and amid Hermione's shock and dismay it was revealed that Ronald had only two sentences writ, and Harry had fumbled just past an introductory paragraph. She was seething and biting, but she was still helping them.

Marcus curled a lip back over his fangs. These two wizards were hardly worth licking his boots, and this impression dovetailed with the idea that they were the mess that clung to his boots from an autumn walk. One should never manipulate and use a witch like this!

For Hermione was their friend, took great pride in that, and she also pitied Potter's groaning and doubted her own incensed response after Weasley's diatribe. Well, Marcus was still incensed. And he understood it all.

These two were the worst 'best mates' she could have.

The Saturday just got worse.

….. [AN: I am not sure about this bottom part. I don't like blaming big D in this fic, I want her friends to appear like unintentional bullies without using the "bad adults" cliché a lot of us authors use.]

Marcus watched her be cornered by a random first year with a note and reluctantly make her way to the Headmaster's office. There, with Marcus held in her laps once again, he watched a supposed leader of the light manipulate the little witch until she agreed to the task she'd originally been up in arms against.

He was stunned and furious both—it made his fur stand on end. Her hands petted down the black fluff, though her heart beat fast and her hands shook. She was just a young witch, and certainly not to be put on the lines like this!

What the old coot asked of her was dangerous and borderline illegal.

And Marcus could clearly see that the old coot was more concerned with the saviour than the sidekick.

Well, Marcus had her best concerns at heart. If she belonged to him and loved him like she did these stupid wizards he would protect her heart and magic and claim her future to tie it to his.

Marcus grinned with the idea. If he courted and betrothed a witch of the light, one of power and beauty and prestige, his parents would have to back off and he would declare himself. And it would give both him and the witch some protection if they used the old magic to declare their courting.

What a good idea! Then he wouldn't be stuck in this cat form with her tempting little body so close. He'd rather be a wizard again and able to pull that delightful little curvy package into his arms!


	10. Siriusly Seeing--Hermione Sirius

Siriusly Seeing: A time travel fix where Hermione Granger of the future becomes their third year divination teacher. The magic has always spoke to her, but she never before thought that she'd had the gift. Being in the past has taught her even more about her sight and knowledge. And being in third year...the year that is the catalyst...Professor Granger can make some changes.  
>She didn't expect to find romance.<p>

I don't own anything you recognize from J.K. Rowling's series.

...~~~...~~~...~~~...

'"I will not encourage such fanciful notions as "the inner eye". I will be instructing everyone in this class towards an equally beneficial understanding of the signs in the world around them. That's not to say a few of you don't have the inner eye—but not one of you shall get special treatment for it. Maybe extra study to understand your sight, yes, but never shall I encourage division in a class geared towards perception and empathy."

The professor looked around with sharp eyes, and the class gaped. Harry thought she reminded him slightly of someone…perhaps McGonagall. Still, he was proud she wasn't the airy wisp he'd heard the older years snickering about. He'd dreaded a class with her.

Still, this new professor was not without her down points. There were rumors going on that she had poisoned the previous lady in her position. Harry rather hoped this wasn't true; he'd had enough bad Professors out for his blood.

He hoped Professor Granger wasn't one of them—but it was always three.

She instructed them on the basics of tea readings, and talked about the different and similar ways it was done around the world. "Many people believe you cannot read your own cup, however that is a personal preference. As with any form of divination, it is always difficult to read your own fortune objectively."

Her eyes passed over him, and he got that brief feeling of familiarity again before he shook it off. It _must_ be a passing similar aspect to professor McGonagall. They'd already discussed her similar name to Hermione and concluded they weren't related in any way.

Besides, the new professor was turning out to be pretty cool; she surely had no hidden motive. Harry gulped as she stood behind Ron who was struggling to read Harry's tealeaves.

She sighed and took the cup from him—"You will not make up fortunes to pass my class. It is considered rude to the true art and dangerous for the fickle magics. They might take offense that you dared to mock them, and skew your predictions in the worst possible way."

She looked down her nose at a pale Ron, his lanky adolescent form hunching in his seat.

She shook her head at him and glanced around at the rapt class. She sighed and began—"True seers, the prophesiers, never know that they are given prophecies. This ensures that they don't broadcast their power and are kept safe from those who would use them for harm. And everyone can read tea leaves," she glanced at Ron from the corner of her eyes, "if they apply themselves."

"The necessity of this class is so that you do understand that world of magic around you—despite what you of old blood understand, most traditions are based on measures enacted due to the interpretation of signs. These were to protect the wizards, and especially to ensure that magic never turned against them for misunderstandings."

She snorted in some personal humor before she turned back to their table, clearly dismissing the rest of their class back to their work.

"Let's hope that Mr. Weasley's interpretation didn't irrevocably alter your fate in some ill manner." Harry certainly hoped so—he'd had enough of bad years.

Ron's ears flushed red.

Her eyes conveyed some humor before they turned down to the cup. They widened, Hermione leaning forward in rapt curiosity.

Harry blinked up at the professor, confused by her sudden indecision as she looked into the dregs of his cup.

"Mr. Potter," she said crisply, "You will see me after class."

She spun away. She paused abruptly, and turned to look over her shoulder at Ron, "And Mr. Weasley, do wait for him with that pet of yours."

The trio gaped after her.

After class Hermione stood with Ron, her expression set. Harry felt emboldened by her angry eyes, but Ron's shifting stance reassured him more. Though his redheaded friend was clutching his pet rat tensely he was being pure Ron.

That normality was assuring.

Professor Granger was staring out one of the bower windows, her hands clasped behind her back and her posture stiff. She turned slightly when he entered, her expression soft as she looked over her shoulder. "Please sit down Mr. Potter."

Harry hesitated but seated himself in front of the teacher's desk.

"I don't mean to interrogate, but have you heard of true prophecies?"

"Ah, no ma'am."

"Hmmm, a shame, but I digress. I glimpsed something in your dregs Mr. Potter, and it startled me to no end."

Harry blinked and shifted, "It's not…bad is it?"

Apparently she wasn't setting out to kill him yet.

She smiled slightly, an amusement making her eyes sparkle like Dumbledore's before she cleared her expression. "No, it won't be, now. Your first cup had a running dog Harry, and that means a good friend and happy meeting except he was at the bottom of the cup.

He is in trouble."

Harry sat back in his chair.

Professor Granger stared at him straightly, "So please Mr. Potter, allow me to do a more serious tea reading with all your focus."

Harry gulped and nodded, wondering what else was in his cup for the professor to take this so seriously. He'd never had another instructor explain what was going on so plainly, never had any adult take such little warning so seriously for his future.

The professor smiled and carefully prepared a pot and then his cup of tea, idly chatting with him and helping him clear his mind. When the tea was nearly gone from the simple porcelain cup she was very careful in instructing him to think very seriously about his Destiny and will the leaves to show him the future as he whorled the cup three times.

When he turned the cup over to drain the last tea from the dregs he stared into the face of his new professor. She tilted her head to one side and regarded him just as plainly.

Then her eyes dropped to the cup and she gestured for him to right it.

She paused, and Harry gulped in the silence. Then, with a slight smile, she carefully displayed his cup. "See how many tea leaves are left? You lead a full and busy life Mr. Potter—one that is rich in more ways than one."

Harry turned confused green eyes up to her.

She smiled again, a small strangely feminine dimple appearing in each of her cheeks. "Though this large clump right here opposite the handle indicates trouble, it is not of your making. And I can interpret these signs directly to the right of the handle to help you manage this future.

This tall stalk right here of dark coloring indicates a man coming into your life—he will be part of these troubles, but that doesn't mean he will be the cause of them…he might be the solution. His stalk is not slanted so he appears trustworthy. And this here, Mr. Potter is the actual sign of a man, with dark hair, and with his hands outstretched which means he is bearing a gift.

There is a mouse here, or a rat—there is treachery and theft in your past and affecting your present.

These here, the most important signs, are the light house and the hourglass."

Harry peered at the dregs in the cup, only able to see the pattern in the leaves clinging to the white porcelain now that she had pointed them out. And instinctively, like Harry seemed to work, he knew that she was right.

"This lighthouse means that trouble is threatening, but averted."

Green eyes looked up again in hope.

"And the hourglass," she hesitated slightly. Her eyes stared intently into the cup as she took in a deep breath, "It means that I am helping you. My decision is made."

She stood and walked around her desk, holding out her hand to help him up.

"Now you have a decision, you have a choice, and I believe a great part in it lays in trusting me tonight no matter how confusing this all seems."

When she finished she simply stared at him, waiting for him to accept her hand.

Harry accepted and took her help up, watching her satisfied smile before she was making her way to the trap door. "Follow me, we'll retrieve your friends and head to Albus' office. I'm sure he'd be delighted in a little adventure."

Harry felt his face stretch in a slow grin as he followed his awesome professor.

Hermione gasped as the woman greeted them cordially, nodding her head before gesturing for the trio to precede her. "To his office Harry, and be quick of it."

Harry ducked his head and grinned even more, if only because Hermione looked mortified at the escort and destination and Ron stumbled in his confusion.

He half thought his professor was doing it on purpose—especially as, when he glanced back to check on his friends, her eyes were twinkling again.

Dumbledore was jolly to see them, but his twinkle deepened as he looked at Professor Granger and the woman smirked at him. She gestured to his fireplace and spoke firmly, "I need to gain audience with the Minister, at least three high ranking aurors, and a reporter if that can be arranged."

Dumbledore chortled and stood. With a grand sweeping gesture Fawke's trilled and disappeared. They made their way to the floo and were at the Ministry in short order.

Harry and his friends gaped at the whirlwind of politics that occurred around them, and in a matter of minutes they were all seated in Minister Fudge's office with the three requested aurors while a reporter was on the way.

Harry watched with wide eyes as the Minister practically cowered from his Divination Professor. She had simply taken her seat and a cup of tea, not even eyeing the man in his opulent chair.

Dumbledore and she exchanged small chat, almost perversely including the Minister and the aurors while they mulled about in confusion.

A bustling reporter arrived, eyeing the contingent with a gleam before charming his camera to float and take pictures and quietly stretching his fingers and preparing eagerly to take notes.

Professor Granger took one last sip of her tea before setting it down politely and folding her hands in her lap. "I requested this meeting tonight for some urgent business," she started simply but didn't bother continuing.

Ron, Hermione and Harry all slowly leaned forward to get a better view of her.

Minister Fudge blustered a moment before muttering, "Well then get on with it."

Professor Granger smiled predatorily. "I am the Divination Professor at Hogwarts, and today was my first lesson with Mr. Potter. I discovered something in his reading that I think you all might find interesting."

Fudge leaned back heavily, mild disgust tracing his pudgy features. Even the aurors lost their tense posture and glanced between each other in amusement. Only the eager reporter and Mr. Dumbledore maintained a steady interest.

Harry swallowed.

"If you'll indulge me," Professor Granger said slowly as she stood. Her face was as sober as it was in class while she turned to the trio. They regarded her with wide eyes, but still missed her next movements.

Her wand was suddenly just there, pointed at Ron as she whispered out a spell. The three cried out and moved, the aurors grew tense and almost leapt forward, Fudge yelled and Dumbledore gripped his armrests in preparation to stand.

But the spell didn't hit Ron, or Harry, or Hermione.

Everyone blinked as Scabbers screeched and writhed, his form shimmering and pulsing before there was suddenly a scruffy unclean man where the animal had been. Ron made a sound of disgust as he tripped back into his seat, Hermione clutching his arm with one hand while her own wand occupied the other.

Harry gaped.

Dumbledore slowly sat down amidst the chaos of Aurors quickly stunning the individual and restraining him while looking to Fudge for orders. The pudgy politician stammered and mopped his sweating brow.

"As you can see," Professor Granger's voice rang out low and clear, "it is an indulgence well satisfied. Peter Pettigrew is before you, awarded an Order of Merlin post-mortem just after the first fall of Voldemort." She paused as several people shuddered, her eyebrows arching as if to say "O grow up".

"I should think," Dumbledore began in his slow ponderous voice, "that this bears some action." His kind blue eyes looked up before he nodded respectfully to their professor.

Fudge finally managed to stammer a full sentence, "Yes, of…of course."

"A trial then, and retrial of Sirius Black on account of his only 'proved' crime just became void."

Harry swallowed and looked at her—the catty tone of her voice resonated with his ire for his many undeserved punishments. It made him wonder if Sirius Black could have been innocent too.

Fudge stammered while the flash of the reporter's camera went off where it floated above their meeting.

Professor Granger and Dumbledore settled themselves as the Aurors escorted Peter out and Fudge mopped his face with his handkerchief.

Hermione was vibrating with energy alongside him, and Ron was muttering about their family rat while the reporter thanked them with a stronger gleam in his eye.

It was quiet at Hogwarts that night, when they arrived back, but the morning's paper caused enough of an uproar to make up for it.

….

Sirius looked up with hollow eyes, his narrowed stare combining with his snarl as the fool of a Minister stopped in front of his cell. The paper caught his eye, but beyond that he couldn't find the energy.

Azkaban was a place the slowly stole your soul, and Sirius'd had twelve years to stew in bitterness at his false incarceration. And now after his escape they'd somehow caught him again. He'd pulled every trick in the Marauder's repertoire, but they'd put him back in a cell. Sirius was bitter and angry, and definitely not in the mood for this pompous man gloating.

But then the man shuffled and pulled at his collar. A soft voice cleared behind him, and Sirius found himself looking into the warm brown eyes of a woman for the first time in as many years.

The Minister quailed under her calm gaze and waved the guards forward. In his confusion Sirius simply sat and watched as they opened the bars of his cell and unlocked his cuffs. He stayed there as they shuffled back uncomfortably.

But the women gave a haughty sniff to them and practically pranced into the cell, depositing a cloth bag at his side before kneeling in front of him. Her small hands cradled his face as she tilted his head back and forth—her gaze assessing and concerned.

"I have soaps and clothes in the bag, you'll want to get this filth off you for when you take your first steps as a free man."

Her thumb absently felt along a recent scrape on his temple, and he still sat dumbly.

Her gaze returned to his, and he was startled to find gold in that entrancing brown. Those beautiful eyes softened, and her lips curved in a slight smile. She slowly nodded her head to confirm his racing thoughts.

His lips parted in a hissing gasp.

"Minister Fudge," she said moderately, "if you would please?"

The Minister shuffled a little before he carefully inched forward and practically threw the paper at his lap. The woman retreated a few inches, inches that felt like a gorge as it took away the first human contact he'd had in so long, but she merely straightened out the paper and smiled at the cover. She turned her impish grin up to him and twisted the paper into his view.

His breath caught as he read the headline, his lungs burning as he rapidly went through the article that detailed his trial by proxy…he was a free man. They'd somehow caught Wormtail…he was a free man.

And he had custody of his godson.

His breath suddenly rushed back into his lungs and he laughed and cried and yelled and sobbed.

He heard the minister and guards shuffle nervously, but the woman sat there with him through it all.

When he finally had no energy she murmured her congratulations and opened up the bag. The guards escorted him to the shower rooms and he gazed back at the woman he was sure he'd never see again.

He hadn't even gotten the angel's name…he hadn't even thanked her.

...

Sirius read up all he could on the trial, but no information was provided as to how Pettigrew had been discovered (or how Padfoot had been for that matter). He learned of Peter's pleas and his conniving begging, his sly intimation to Death Eaters still running free.

He was angry that Pettigrew had escaped during his trial, but as the trial had been a public one the newspapers had ran with assumptions for days, until they pressured for a manhunt. Under Minister Fudge, the paranoid power-hungry fool, there had been no room for a possible hint of the Dark Lord surviving and every resource had been used to ferret out the truth.

And it was easily discovered that Sirius Black should be a free man.

He sighed and rubbed his head.

He hadn't gotten to thank his angel, and he had no one else to thank about Pettigrew's capture.

Fudge was avoiding him, and the populace still gave him wary unsure looks—skittish. He didn't need to thank any of them though, so that was okay.

He sighed and glanced unsurely up at Hogwarts—it was barely even December, and the castle already looked like something out of a Christmas tale. He had so many fond memories of those halls, and he set to the paths towards it with vigor.

It was time to meet Harry.

He swallowed as he walked through the empty halls, seeking out Dumbledore to gain access to his godson. He didn't want to interrupt anything, especially when he knew the old man'd had a strong hand in his trial.

He stood in front of the stone gargoyle, trying to recall candies and sweets when his thoughts for years had been bitter and tasteless.

He glowered at the stone beast.

"Mr. Black?" a familiar voice inquired. He turned, stunned to find his angel standing before him in full robes. Her head tilted and she blinked her eyes at him, "I was unaware that the headmaster was expecting you," she said softly.

He shook himself back to his senses and attempted a smile after so long of feeling no joy—he knew it came out broken but she didn't react. "He wasn't, expecting me that is."

She looked him up and down before nodding her head slowly. She walked around him to speak to the gargoyle, "Tell Headmaster Dumbledore that he has an unexpected guest. We'll call off our afternoon tea until another time."

The gargoyle bowed and then froze, his stony gaze somehow introspective and far off despite its medium.

Sirius turned to thank her but she was already gone. He blinked at the empty hall before turning back to the gargoyle as it leapt to the side and revealed the familiar stairs.

….

Given that Albus Dumbledore was the only person Sirius knew with a connection to his angel, he had tried to weasel out some answers. Of course, not knowing the witch's name, how she was connected to the case, or how she knew Dumbledore…well. Apparently a wizard of so many years knew a lot of brunette witches.

Sirius pouted.

That man had too many tea dates as well. When Sirius had insisted she was visiting for tea, the old man's eyes had twinkled brighter than usual. At that point Sirius knew the game had gotten even harder.

Albus was too mischievous. Came with being a Gryffindor—Sirius had even heard once that when Albus Brian Wulfric Percival Dumbledore was a student he'd set the bed hangings on fire in the red and gold dorm.

Previously, Albus hadn't known what witch Sirius Orion Black had been referring to. In that state of ignorance the man might have stumbled and revealed information. Now he knew, and he was keeping that information from Sirius in the interest of respecting the witch's privacy.

So Sirius spent the first hour he visited trying to finagle a way to converse with her. Oh, and he remembered to thank Dumbledore. And then they got to more serious business.

Because there were still Peter and Death Eaters about, and Sirius was leery to accept his old Auror status back.

The high note of the trip was when he got to go down to dinner with his godson. He had some mighty friends—and the old dog had a blast regaling them with stories and teasing them.

And then he joined an old friend to heal old wounds.

…

Harry came and went to classes, conversing with Sirius through the floo some nights but mostly exchanging letters. They were going through the magically legal process of adoption—since his parents' wills had not been secured that Halloween, the magical world recognized Sirius' right as his godfather. Harry was over the moon about it.

And he was really happy with his new friend.

Sure Professor Hermione Granger was, well, a professor. But she was the best he'd ever had. Even though Professor Lupin was awesome and taught defense, Professor Granger felt…well she felt like home.

Harry had never felt like that.

Sure Hogwarts was his safe haven, as much as it could be with everything that went around…so okay maybe Hogwarts was his escape from the dreadful muggle world he was confined to in the summers. That made Professor Granger his haven from everything. Nothing bad had ever happened in her classroom—she kept everyone on their best behavior, and she made class interesting.

Harry was a little disappointed that Sirius had no respect for her craft whenever he brought it up. But he supposed there'd been plenty rumours about Professor Trelawney. Sirius would have had the old professor for his teacher.

A little shudder of premonition followed Harry's thoughts. He thought he might have died in her class.

So he sat with Professor Granger near her desk as she catalogued some tarot cards and he did homework. A few of these occasions she'd received post through the house elves—it was the sourest face he'd ever seen her make.

…

Sirius mopped a hand down his face, regarding Harry with delighted exasperation. "At least you caught the snitch boyo."

Harry grinned, his cut lip looking painful but ignored. "I did, and you owe me a butter beer."

Sirius Black laughed like he hadn't since James had been alive.

Their merrymaking and teasing was cut short as the hospital doors creaked and the familiar but unnamed form of his angel made her way to their corner of the ward. She stopped firmly at the foot of the bed, eyeing him cordially before turning assessing eyes to Harry.

"Professor Granger!" Harry cried out in shock as he sat up in the hospital bed.

Sirius lifted his brows and smiled at the witch, running his tongue along his teeth before he purred—"Professor Granger."

She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, her wand dangling warningly from one hand as her eyes flashed. "Mister Black," she responded curtly.

"I did simply want to thank you," he started perfunctorily, and then he grinned as charmingly and devilishly as he had before Azkaban—she seemed to pull that side of him back out of the depths of his soul. "And then you just became too interesting for me to leave you alone."


	11. Veela Verification--Hermione Theo

I don't own any recognizable HP fact, quote, character, or setting. I make no profit off of this.

Tired of the now cliche veela fics, and the overdone pairings. I wanted a more subtle approach. So here we have a quiet and introspective Theodore Nott managing his veela in a more Slytherin manner-i.e. being prepared and paying attention before he comes of age. Too bad Hermione was unknowingly throwing a wrench in his careful observations.

...

"I have a proposition," she said simply, standing in his way.

In the deserted hallway he could easily walk around her, but he was a Slytherin and he liked dealings and secrets and information. He was curious.

"What sort of proposition could the princess of Gryffindor have for me?"

She gave him an inscrutable look, "I need you to go on a date with me."

He blinked.

She tilted her chin up.

"Preposterous," and he attempted to walk around her.

"Hear me out! I will owe you a favor—and I know some really influential people. I can put in a good word or few. And it's only one date—just to deal with Ron."

His nostrils flared as he looked down at the witch. "I hardly find that enticing, and I won't go with this plan. If you're so desperate get another wizard—I want no part in making Weasley jealous."

"I don't want to make Ron Jealous! I just want to prove that I'm not desperate for him!" she shrieked, her hair cackling with magic. Then she subdued, her shoulders drooping and her eyes solemn, "Only, there aren't many guys interested, so I kind of needed to ask someone to go on a date with me…and I know this is all stupid and rather ridiculous, but Ron's parading his new girlfriend around in front of me and he keeps giving me these insipid pitying looks and I can't take it anymore."

"You're not interested in Weasley?" he asked incredulously and quietly.

Hermione wrinkled her nose and gave him a sour look. "We bicker all the time."

"Unresolved sexual tension, the relationship of an old married couple, denial of feelings, and covering up a secret relationship: those are only a few of the theories circling."

She scoffed and tossed her hair, "Old married couples still in love have much smoother relationships, and our type of relationship would be considered verbally abusive. I am not some silly little girl who fantasizes about continuously being torn down by my man but he has a "secret" side—that is NOT romantic."

His eyebrows rose—she had an impressive gold glare. He cleared his throat. "Weasley is trying to make you jealous."

She blinked, her head rearing back and her shoulders squaring, "Wha-" then her face paled, "I think I might be sick."

Theodore smiled, then he chuckled.

Hermione stared at the usually quiet Slytherin, finding his laughter rather…pleasant. But, "Oh do control yourself," she huffed good naturedly, smiling at him and crossing her arms.

"You have a delightful way about you, Miss Granger."

She blinked and tilted her head.

"I find you mature and thoughtful…but why did you pick me?"

She pursed her lips before shrugging. "You are a true gentlemen, and never have I heard or seen you belittling others. I think, even if it was a fake date, that we could have a nice time. I hear you are working on an essay for Transfiguration Theories Today—I'm rather intrigued by your base ideas and would like to hear more."

Theodore drew back this time, his dark eyebrows high with surprise.

She shrugged rather sheepishly, "I know it's not really every bloke's idea of a grand time with a girl, but I really just want to show people that I'm not wasting away over Ron and that I am desirable to some people."

"Even though we'd be faking."

She blushed like the roses in his mum's garden. "Well, yes."

Theo felt a lurch in his more feral side that he quickly subdued. He narrowed his eyes at the witch in front of him instead. Never had his other half pulled so strongly, and he was at once suspicious.

He agreed carefully, couching his agreement with the term that they would not act like pitiful teenagers but cautious mature students testing the idea of courting.

She'd laughed a little at him, but agreed with a relieved expression.

Two days later they had met up at the carriages to go on their little subterfuge. She looked rather fetching with the cold flushing her cheeks and a sparkle in her eye, bundled up in rather neutral grey and plum colors.

Theo conceded his head to her—offering his arm up to a carriage before he followed her in.

"Thank you," greeted him as soon as they were seated. And he looked at his companion for the day to note that her gratitude was both for the gentlemanly assistance and for the date.

"You are welcome," he offered politely, and then glanced out the carriage. Already he could spot gossips pointing out the carriage they resided in. He quirked a brow and turned back to the fidgeting Gryffindor.

"Was there no other house that boasted a single male you could conspire with?"

Hermione's brow furrowed. "There were single men, certainly, but none I'd ever force myself to spend the day with."

Theo's eyebrows lifted.

Hermione blushed darker, "Not that this is a hardship, I mean I expect a rather pleasant day with you. The others in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff and even Gryffindor all have this…well, arrogance about them. It sets me off."

Theo tilted his head to one side and lounged back in the bench, regarding the caramel witch and her dark expressive eyes. Some thought her arrogant as well, but he knew from observance that she operated in a carefully staked area where her knowledge was resolute—she did not step out and claim beyond what she knew. The irony was that many called Theo arrogant.

That she thought he wasn't (which was true) was a mark for her intelligence. She could see beyond silence and stoicism. He ignored the little lurch of his other half that insisted she was studying _him_.

The idea was farfetched.

Hermione Granger was a Gryffindor—bold and aggressive. She was the one to seek him out because she wanted someone who would not assume much of their little escapade because he was passive and stoic. That was the extent of it.

"How did you discover my essay? I was under the impression that it was supposed to be kept hushed and under a pseudonym?"

Granger flushed and ducked her head a little, fiddling with the edge of her fringed scarf. When she peeked back up at him he was still silently waiting.

The pair ignored the lurch of the carriage starting.

Theodore was half starting to think she'd done something untoward to get that knowledge to bribe him into this date—a little impressed and strangely put off with the idea of such cunning—but then she huffed and interrupted the thought.

"Professor McGonagall regularly has me read scholarly essays for the paper—she's part of the board. I very much liked your thesis, and when I was researching more I recalled that particular literary voice and style of writing from when we had that group project in Charms."

"You assumed your theory was correct and that I, a sixth year, was the writer and so approached me?"

She tossed her head of curls. "Nonsense. I wasn't even going to address you about it. I knew it was you when I overheard you trying to tutor Pansy in the great hall—about the Transfiguration assignment we were doing in class regarding Toadstools."

Theo tilted his head in interest.

Hermione pouted her lips and narrowed her eyes. "But then Ronald started going out with Lavender while trying to goad me, and Harry has been really busy, so I decided to take a risk and approach you."

…..

[There is some filler dates and happenins here in my head but not here typed up, before Theo gets the notion that…]

…

"What?" Hermione asked in a strangled voice.

Theo narrowed his eyes. "You're blocking your magic and pheromones," he repeated.

Her wide hazel eyes darted from side to side as she backed up slightly. "Why did you even notice such a thing?"

"There are circumstances that make me more sensitive to gender magic, I had never thought to wonder why I had no notion of your aura."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Theo cut off her quick mind before it could formulate any further explanations, "So why does your aura hide?"

She swallowed and squared her shoulders, a mulish expression overcoming her face.

Theo sighed. "Hermione, we have spent much time conversing. You have even correctly surmised my true allegiances. Trust me with this at least."

Her mulish expression faded into something vulnerable before her bravery and independence asserted itself over her face. Theo was half thankful she'd managed her expression so quickly—seeing her vulnerable made his veela rage something spectacular. But he'd also liked seeing her vulnerable and implicitly trusting _him_.

Then she licked her lips. "I am under a potions regime to suppress my witch aura from broadcasting."

"Why?"

Her eyes dropped. "Love potions work by using the witch's aura against them, taking their broadcasted femininity and magic and tying it to a recipient."

"I know this," he narrowed his eyes. "You think someone will use a love potion on you?" His hackles rose at the very thought. Hermione was a very smart witch, and Theo was sure she was the only reason Saint Potter and the Goober were alive after all their misadventures. She would be in danger, but would someone stoop so low as to use her very gender and magic as a witch against her?

Hermione shook her head, "I was in the infirmary a while back for an allergy—someone had been dousing me with love potions already."

Theo snarled, he couldn't help it with the way his veela inside reacted so aggressively.

Hermione drew in a sharp breath and took another step back.

The Slytherin shook his head and stiffened his posture, fighting his veela so he could regain speech and explain. It took him a moment, and Hermione was fingering the edge of her wand in its holster when he recovered himself. "Forgive me," he started with in his aristocratic voice, "but the very thought is unsettling."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but she relaxed slightly. "That might be an understatement. You reacted worse than when Ronald insulted your family name."

Nott stuck his chin up and raised an eyebrow, keeping his posture and expression otherwise plain. "A name can be restored; a witch's aura should never be tampered with."

The Gryffindor smiled, a little blush lighting her cheeks.

His veela reacted more strongly, and Nott pursed his lips around a half formed thought. He'd suspected, but been so confused by the lacking pull from Hermione, and signs of the pull she would feel from him, that he'd dismissed the notion as ludicrous.

"Hermione," he questioned softly.

She turned her pretty eyes back up to him.

"Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me this Saturday?"

She smiled shyly, a little dimple at her cheeks. "Why, I would much like that."

Theo smiled, "Good."

He just needed one day to test his theory, and he'd take until Saturday to think and prepare. But if it proved true…he'd woo her that Saturday and ask what just might be the hardest thing he would ever ask of her.

He would be asking her to make herself vulnerable.

They spent the last few days of the week going about their casual friendship, which the whole school assumed was a quiet relationship. They greeted each other in the halls, sometimes stopping for a chat about this or that; they took walks around the lake; they sat beside each other in the library…

Theo waited nervously by the carriage, recalling their brief friendship and half-courtship. All the signs were there. His veela had reacted to Hermione even while she had the suppressor potions in her system. It'd been why he'd noticed her missing aura, as he approached his majority he had already been looking for his mate and somehow knew that she was supposed to be his even though all the signals were getting skewed.

He raged when she confessed about her love potion scare, he grew protective and defensive when she complained about Weasley, he calmed (he swore his veela actually purred) when she was at his side and happy, he missed her when they did not see each other for a spell, he wanted to treat her every time they went to Hogsmeade, and he sought her out for their second "date" with the excuse of continuing their sham though she'd only suggested the one date to get tongues wagging.

Theo had stepped out of his distance to seek her out—that was the most telling of all.

After this self examination he set out to plan the best date possible for Hermione.

She called out his name as she approached, and he turned to spot her in bronze and green. He smiled. While their first outings had her carefully neutral in her clothing choices, she'd started to dress more favoring his school and ancestral house colors. He appreciated the consideration.

They looked like a courting pair.

After assisting her into the carriage he tapped the roof and listened to her excited babbling about a theory she'd started to work on for Potions.

Their date went well, despite the intrusiveness of their last conversation. Theo delighted in Hermione's bubbliness and wit, and as he watched her his thoughts weighed on him. He had intruded on her privacy with his inquiry, and because of his stray thoughts and the other part of him urging him on he had a request for her. He carefully attended her throughout the date, conversing and treating her as genteelly as he ever had—if with more intention considering his plans for later.

Arm in arm they walked to the park bench, taking a seat beside each other to watch the starlings and the turning leaves.

Theo hesitated slightly but then took her hand up in his and shifted so he faced her more. Her face was open in inquiry, and he took in a deep breath of her half scent (missing the aura marker) before he closed his eyes. "I wanted to tell you, I have ancestry not strictly of the purest blood."

She smiled and laughed a little. "Theo."

"No Hermione. I want us to try a real relationship—I need us to try one. So I need to be honest." And he swallowed hard.

Her eyes softened. "And to be honest is to be vulnerable."

His eyes darted up to her, looking into the dark knowledge of her irises. "I have struggled to control this part of me, this gift from my ancestral line, for a long time in hopes that I do nothing foolish. It has made me more in tune with the less pure side of me."

Hermione moved to say something, but he tightened his hands on hers and sent her a pleading quelling look. He wouldn't be able to continue if she soothed him or argued.

But he lost his words anyway, and could only manage, "I'm a veela," with a sense of doom.

She blinked at him and tilted her head. "And?"

He scrunched up his face in response, confusion and irritation welling within him. His veela snarled at him, angry at him for getting frustrated with what would be their mate.

Hermione sighed and flexed her fingers in his, twisting them until she was holding his own hands and then she leaned forward. "I supposed you were a veela a while ago, Theo."

Nott whispered hoarsely, "What?"

Hermione nodded her head quite matter-of-factly. "Well, the way you sneered whenever the heavily perfumed classmates walked by, and the fact that when you truly get angry your eyes flash this elongated pupil, and several other indicators listed at the veela section in _General Genetics of Gentility_ gave you away. I suppose not too many students open that book though, so your secret is rather safe."

"And you have no problem with this?" Theo asked incredulously.

Hermione gave him a rather dry arch look. "Theo, your peers call me a mudblood and I have a half-giant for a friend, a half-kneazle for a familiar, and I regularly correspond with Fleur who is a known quarter blooded veela."

Theo grinned slightly. "That does make my worry seem rather absurd."

Hermione smiled dazzlingly at him, and the veela in him did purr as it admired her.

But then he sobered and stared at her earnestly. "But it makes what I ask of you more horrible, for you have found and kept my secrets yet I need to challenge your safeguards."

"What?"

Theo looked down briefly before looking up in entreaty, "Hermione, I need you to not take the potion that blocks your feminine magic." Her wide eyes filtered the light strangely, and Theo admired the gold tint to her usually dark irises before he focused on her pale face. "I know you have real fear that you're still being dosed by whoever attempted in the first place, but if we stay out late tonight they won't have access to you and you can take your inhibitor when we get back to the castle. It'll only be a few hours overdue."

Hermione licked her lips and started shaking her head, "Theo, I was so lucky to be allergic to an ingredient in the potion—they could have changed their formula already. And we don't even know who tried to dose me!"

"Hermione…"

"I even regularly have to go in for checks and system purges, just in case! Students should not have access to such strong love potions, and there's rumors that—"

"I think you're my mate."

Hermione sucked in her words on a sharp breath, coughing on the air while she gaped at him.

Theo attempted a smile. "I just wanted to be able to sense you properly. My veela instincts have been going crazy since we've gotten closer, and since I'm nearing my majority when my creature inheritance is at its strongest I've been struggling with my instincts regarding you."

She closed her mouth and blinked at him. "But…how…"

"Would you trust me to protect you?"

"Of course," she breathed out.

Theo squeezed her hands in his and pulled them to his lips. He leaned down to kiss her fingers, watching her dark eyes as he recalled the day he'd proven he could protect her.

"Then don't take your inhibitor, stay out here in the park with me, and let's find out."

Hermione ducked her head while a blush ran rampant across her cheeks and nose.

Theodore grinned at her, ducking his head a little so he could see her face.

Then her eyes turned back up to his, and she agreed.

A little awkward silence settled, but only lasted for minutes before she laughed. "That explains your reaction to Romilda—you could sense she definitely wasn't your mate and she was so forward."

Theo huffed but smiled slyly at her, also knowing that veela found every other female repulsive once they'd found their mate.

Hermione laughed a little louder. "She was trying so hard to get at me after I foiled her attempts at Harry. The poor thing!"

Theo laughed softly with her, scooting closer to wrap his arm around her waist.

Hermione softened in to him a bit, looking up with her smile still in her eyes.

Theo wouldn't tell her about the love potion the chit had tried on him, which might be a bit much right now. Maybe later, when she was more secure and not as scared for her own potion situation.

She shivered a bit, but it wasn't cold. Theo grinned and bent down to kiss the crown of her head.

They chatted and whiled away the time—the dusk painted the sky soft oranges and pinks when Hermione checked her watch and sighed. Then she straightened and looked up at him seriously—"Are you ready?"

And before Theo could respond the first hints of a _tantalizing_ smell struck him. His nostrils flared and his eyes brightened as he looked straight at Hermione.

He watched her swallow as the smell became stronger—musk and sweetness to it marking it as _female_, a tang and spice marking it as _strong_ …and a pull that told of his _mate_.

The scent followed by the revealing of her aura, as the moon rose in the sky, captivated him.

Hermione fidgeted under his heavy stare. The silence stretched long, and Hermione cut her eyes away.

"So, the experiment's a disappointment?"

"Never," he said strongly as he reached out and pulled her to him, tilting his head down to look into her wide eyes. "Any experiment that has such a marvelous female as my mate is brilliant."

Hermione ducked her head into his collarbone and tightened her fingers in his shirt, where her hands were trapped between their bodies. She let out a little sigh and softened into him.

"Thank you," he said against her temple as he kissed it.

She laughed, "You can't thank me for being your mate yet, we haven't figured out what about me will annoy the hell out of you."

"I was thanking you for trusting me to wait and let your potion wear off. I was thanking you for letting me protect you when you've been dosing yourself for who knows how long. I was thanking you


	12. The Family Tree

I don't own or make profit off of anything you recognize-actually I don't make any profit off of this at all.

A different take on the "Hermione has hidden wizard ancestry" theme that is floating around in the ether of fan fiction. And this way, I could explain how Hermione's hair is so awfully hard to control...

...

Hermione tried to reign in her snarl as she walked with the rest of the students down the line—of course Umbridge would think of something like this. The students were doing blood testing, Umbridge claimed it was for hidden heritage, but Hermione Granger was a smart fifth year witch…she knew the bigoted pink toad had ulterior motives.

This was to ferret out any students who were hiding as halfbloods or even purebloods but had no such claim to magical heritage.

She watched with relief as a lot of her fellow Gryffindors were proven to speak the truth, she was surprised that a few Ravenclaws were actually mudbloods when they had spoken proudly of their magical heritage, she was not surprised at the amount of purebloods in Slytherin. Hufflepuff, much to everyone's consternation, apparently had a whole slew of purebloods that had claimed they were halfbloods…she didn't understand the logic in it beyond some Hufflepuffian concept of Loyalty.

Hermione braced her shoulders back, watching everyone slowly take their parchments with their growing family tree. The magic would glow and produce a tree only if one had magical heritage, and it would be a week at the least before the magic was strong enough to start writing the names of kin.

Dean Thomas was a confirmed half-blood, and his lone branch glowed strongly as it expanded. From the looks if it he would have a large family, and possibly a sibling.

_Lucky._

Hermione took a deep breath and glared at the DADA professor as Umbridge did her cutesy throat clearing. With a flick of her wrist she cut her palm and flourished it over the treated parchment.

She was just as surprised as everyone else when an immediate tree started glowing a dark blue. With catty satisfied eyes she looked at Umbridge and smirked, carefully taking the parchment and tossing her hair as she left.

When she was alone, hidden in the deepest halls, she carefully took out her parchment. The blue inky magic was spreading rapidly, forming a flourishing family tree.

Hermione, having grown up the only child of her generation in a stifled tiny family, felt an excited nervousness building in her. She knew she was the product of a mother's fling—worse a mother's machinations to get back at her father—but she had never guessed that her mother had found a _wizard _in the bar that night she had executed her revenge.

The Granger family motto was _et super omnem veritatem logicam:_ "logic and truth above all". Hermione had grown up knowing that she was unplanned and evidence of family feuds. Her French relatives had always teased her, or looked at her in that knowing way, and Hermione had bore up under it as she strived to be the best daughter she could be.

She took the family teachings to heart. She read and thought and learned and discovered—and she hid her emotions and never ever let them know how confused and sorry she was on the inside.

The Grangers were uppercrust—emotions were for the poor and weak.

So she was stoic and learned and proper—except when she was at Hogwarts and away from them she found her emotions got away from her, that she opened up too much and was too rowdy and forward.

That was all right, she supposed, as long as the Grangers never saw her behaving in such a way.

And so Hermione Granger hid deep into the castle, hiding behind tapestries and stone, and then she let out the loudest squeal ever to pass her lips as she pressed the parchment to her chest and spun in circles.

-'^`-

Dean was angry, shouting and waving his parchment in the air. It wasn't that he was…angry at the father he never knew. It was more that he was angry at everyone who had ever wondered who his father was, everyone who had assumed he was halfblood, and everyone who had denied him his muggle roots because magic was supposed to come from the blood.

And now Umbridge had proved them all right.

Dean stared, his nostrils flaring and his eyes rolling white, down at the innocent little parchment.

He had a magical father…

Dean was sort of also happy. This magic would finally tell him who his father was, who the man was that had been lost to his work until the day the men came and broke his mother's heart.

She didn't talk much of it, but his older brothers had whispered to him on the anniversaries, asking him to do his best and be his quietest for their anguished mama.

If he knew his father's name, could find mention of him in the wizarding world, maybe he could find out more and finally help his mother get the closure she needed. And maybe…maybe he had left them something. Maybe a man in such a dangerous job had taken care of his family and ensured they would be safe and cared for…

Maybe they stood a chance of keeping the old farm.

Dean sighed and forced himself to gently put the parchment aside. Instead he took out his brushes and inks and his sketchbook and vented.

He enjoyed drawing, enjoyed how he could let all his emotions out. His mother had always encouraged him, telling him that no one in the family really could draw and that he was special. She'd framed many of his pictures, and once even got a commission for him from a fellow churchgoer.

So Dean Thomas, confirmed half-blood, flicked the brush and twirled the bristles in the tooth of the parchment, watching as his emotions came to life.

He was looking at himself, the wretchedly broken and hopeful look of a boy turning man who was finding roots where he never knew they were planted. The shadowy tree, veined with sparkling blue 'magic', stood tall behind him, one lone blossom struggling to bud.

Dean sighed and blew sand across, watching the colors set.

Setting aside his work he again glanced at the parchment at his night table—watching the blue magic glow and branch and prove.

He only had a week to wait.

-'^`-

Kingsley was just settling into the family quarters with his youngest son, his heart and mind racing so that he felt he might actually need the nurse. This was absurd; he was a fit man who'd chosen a career that insisted he maintain his health.

He did so with the cunning awareness that most of the criminals he fought were lazy wizards who relied on magic more than muscle. Kingsley Shacklebolt had both.

In abundance.

But the mountain of a man had fallen to his knees and cried when he'd first received the call.

His sons, the wife he'd lost; they were alive.

So he'd rushed to meet Dean Aaron Shacklebolt…Thomas. The young man had been his spitting image, with the lanky length that spoke of his height in the next few years.

As men, they'd been awkward and unsure, and hadn't really gotten to know each other for the last month of school before Kingsley had been called to work—emergency at the Ministry.

The look on his son's face as he'd rushed out the door almost killed him.

But he went.

He crashed his own ministry, fought in the Department of Ministries, and rescued young children doing what was supposed to be his job. If only the Minister would actually get off his arse and allow the Aurors to act.

Denying Voldemort so staunchly had made the minister cut off most of the defense budget—an immature and petty maneuver against everyone daring to tell him how to do his job.

Kingsley, only slightly banged up, returned to the family dorms at Hogwarts to find his son asleep on the couch. He threw a quilt over the young man and sat down in the chair near him, watching the fire and his son as he nursed his swelling eye and time slipped away to musings.

The Owl screeching into the flat woke Dean up and drew Kingsley abruptly from his musings.

The morning light was strong in the dorms, and the fire had petered out to coals.

Reading the missive his face paled and he looked at his son. He knew their next stop, but he struggled to reconcile the image of the young woman-child bleeding and limp with the image of what he always imagined of a daughter.

Clapping Dean on the shoulder he escorted his son to the hospital ward, silently passing the teenager the letter when he questioned.

For Kinglsey's throat was choked up with emotion again.

-'^`-

Hermione sat in her hospital bed, quietly watching Madame Pomfrey approach. The matron surreptitiously glanced about before standing close and sliding a folded parchment across the sheets.

"Here, Dear. I saved this from your clothing."

And Hermione smiled tremulously while she caressed the frayed parchment.

Even going on her adventure because Harry needed her, Hermione had needed something for herself. She'd stashed her lineage parchment in the strap of her bra, folded it carefully in leather and held it close to her heart the entire night.

She was glad it was still whole.

She hadn't the heart to look at it while it was still growing. She was dearly afraid of losing all her hopes. And it was very hard to admit, even to herself, that she wanted another family.

It didn't really matter if it was magical or not, but Hermione had always wished she had been with the man her mother had tricked. She had always wanted a father who let her cry on his shoulder or a stepmother who helped her do her makeup and giggled with her about her first date.

It was very hard to admit that she didn't like her life, especially when everyone always assumed she had it golden. Harry mentioned once in a while that it would be nice to have gone to such nice schools, Ginny had commented on the quality of her clothes a few times, even Ron had somehow noted that she had it "better off" in one of his rants.

But Hermione would trade all of that—every piece of clothing and year of schooling and every car that her father drove—just so that she could know without a doubt that her parents would be _happy_ to see her when she came home. She wouldn't have to leave the house and go riding, or play tennis, or practice her fencing to get out of their way.

Hermione had kept the parchment close to her heart and never worked up the courage to look. But tonight…tonight she had almost died.

She needed potions for the whole summer, and maybe even into her later years of schooling if there were more complications. She wasn't allowed to do many activities that would stress her heart…she wasn't allowed to be out of the house really. And everyone assumed she would be happy stuck in her room in her house reading her books.

But she didn't have the spirit to do that this summer.

Instead she plucked up the courage to look at the name of the man who was stuck with her, and the courage to hope that he'd be a light wizard and at least want to know her through letters.

Her summer was looking rather lonely otherwise.

So Hermione looked, and she started crying and laughing at the same time.

Madame Pomfrey bustled over in a hurry, running diagnostic spells before she was even within reach. There was nothing wrong of course, and the matron hugged the bawling child to her chest as she glanced at the parchment.

It appears the father would be receiving another call.

-'^`-

Dean followed his father through the halls, his mind boggling with the idea that he had a half-sister of this father. But the missive was forthright, and Dean half thought that he should have finished waiting for his family tree to grow before tossing it aside.

No, he'd been too excited to have an _alive_ father.

And now he had a sister.

Dean grew up in a family of boys, their one sister had been stillborn and the last attempt at pregnancy by their parents.

That he had a sister, and one barely under a year younger, was daunting and exciting. That he knew her already, and he already admired her character and wisdom, well, that was just brilliant!

But she was in the hospital wing.

So Dean kept up with the long strides of Shacklebolt and was barely out of breath when they pushed open the doors to the hospital ward. Madame Pomfrey looked up with a tired face when they arrived, a little relief lightening the darkness around her eyes.

Dean swallowed.

The beds were full.

Not only were there students who'd ran into the inquisitorial squad and detention with Umbridge, but every student who had gone missing last night and caused the uproar was occupying a bed.

And Hermione, his sister, lay reclined against pillows, looking pale and distraught and still victorious.

Dean hung back.

Kingsley cleared his throat and approached the foot of the bed, resting his hand on the railing and floundering for something to say.

Hermione tilted her chin up. "It's nice to meet you."

Dean choked.

Shacklebolt stood straight—a tall muscled man all intimidating in his rumpled dark Auror robes. Then he coughed and cleared his throat.

Hermione didn't look the slightest bit intimidated, but gazed at him with dark eyes that looked rather relieved. "I was wondering if I could write to you this summer, at least."

Shacklebolt made a sound and sank to his knees, leaning his upper torso on the bed and staring at the little Gryffindor.

Dean knew he wouldn't stand for just letters—the man had gone out of his way to make Dean and the family welcome the entire summer, though his older brothers and his parents were uncomfortable with the idea as of now Dean had not hesitated.

He was a Gryffindor.

And he hoped Hermione would take up the offer too. He knew the trio talked about her Dentist parents and their upper class life, and that Shacklebolt was a military man who lived as spartanly as possible…

But she'd want to get to know her father right?

How were they siblings anyway?

"I would hope," Shacklebolt's deep voice intoned, "That you'd be willing to actually visit this summer. I have a small cottage, your brother and I would welcome your company."

And Hermione, pale bruised and bandaged Hermione, lit up with the idea. Her eyes closed with relief, and the little smile pulled her lips, and her skin glowed.

"We'll have to arrange it with the Grangers."

Dean cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at his sister.

"But I would love to get to know my father and half-brother."

Dean cleared his throat and stepped closer, brushing his knee against the starch white sheets that hung over the side of the bed. His smile flashed white against his skin. "It's a little mad, but this'll be brilliant. And we have two older brothers, Duke and Ben, but they've just settled into their little families so there's no reunion yet."

He hesitated and flicked his eyes at Shacklebolt. "And Ma wasn't comfortable visiting when Dad was supposed to be going on vacation to spend time with her."

Hermione blinked and settled a bit back more into her pillows. Then her dark eyes slid slowly to Shacklebolt and his closed expression. "It might've been too much of a shock for me anyways," she offered briskly. "I'm not much used to big families."

"The Weasleys?"

She rolled her eyes, "I've been there all of twice in the five years I've known the family. It's not like I can get used to that mess when I stay maybe three nights a year."

Kingsley cleared his throat. "Then you are very welcome at the cottage. We'll get to know each other and figure things out from there."

Hermione nodded her head.

Dean shuffled slightly, "Ah, that's great. But this is a wee confusing."

Shacklebolt clenched his fists and bowed his head before straightening and standing. "I'm sorry for that."

And he stood there silently.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "That's all well and good that you feel sorry, but I won't accept it until I know what you are apologizing for."

The man paced and rubbed a hand over his shaved head. His earring caught and reflected the dim morning light. "I am sorry that this whole thing is happening, that there is so much confusion and you have to deal with this."

Hermione's eyes narrowed and she stuck her jaw out mulishly. "I'm not."

…

Shacklebolt rested once again in the separate family quarters, watching his son fiddle with something in his trunks. The father of two Gryffindors…he was both amazed and ashamed of how they'd steamrolled him into an explanation for his apology and then both had summarily denied needing one for what he'd assumed was his guilt.

Even when he'd broken and explained how he'd "lost" his family and then lost himself in drinks, and at the bar he'd found a muggle woman for one night—neither had accused him or even let him continue in his guilt.

"_I knew," Hermione interrupted his struggle. She gazed with steadfast knowledge at him and Kingsley trailed to a stop. Dean stared in consternation at the witch. "Mother and Father told me. You do not have to apologize for something you had no control over. My mother took advantage of you in your drinks, and I was her punishment…their punishment."_

That brought on an entirely new sense of guilt and rage, but he'd had enough of emotions for one night. He was an Auror! The only reason he'd broken was because this had all happened so fast. His wife and sons were alive; he even had sired a wizard! And he had a daughter.

And he had rescued her from a bludgeoning curse intended to take her life.

So he sat in the commons of his guest quarters and watched his son and stewed in a flagging anger and guilt.

Then Dean sighed and plopped onto the cushion beside him. "Hermione's usually spot on yeah? Harry and Ron are slowly learning to always listen to her—you should take that advice."

"I abandoned your family because I was told they'd been killed, I lost myself in drinks and lost my job at MI15, and then I begot a child without even knowing!"

Dean blinked.

Kingsley took a breath and shook his head. Auror training never prepared them for thisng like _this_. Kingsley Shacklebolt was a good Auror and a good man, he was strong and in control.

He was not a man that raved and ranted so!

"I'm sorry."

Dean shrugged. "You should have seen me when I got the parchment first—had quite the tantrum. You're handling it well considering all you've lost and now gained…and still somehow lost." The boy looked away guiltily.

Shacklebolt softened. "I don't blame Nadine for moving on—nor your brothers for being wary of knowing me. It's been fifteen years apart from me. I'm glad they accept the fact that I want to get to know them, and I'm willing to take it slow to become friends."

The boy swallowed hard and looked up at him.

Kingsley sighed and leaned back heavily in the couch. "Hermione will be here soon, we have a few days wait before we can make our way to the cottage. Then your school records will all be cleared up and the owls with your results will both go to me and your other parents."

Dean smiled. "It'll be awesome this summer." Then he hesitated. "But I don't understand…Hermione."

He shook his head, "I told you, I was drunk and her mother met me in the bar—the only night I spend with another woman and I end up getting her pregnant." He mopped his big hand down his face.

Dean straightened and narrowed his eyes. "Well, at least you got Hermione out of all that."

And Kingsley watched his now defensive son march away into his room.

Yes, he had a daughter out of the mess. But she was nothing like he expected. She was brilliant and scary and driven…and a part of him was suspicious. Why did she want so badly to stay with him this summer? Why did she refer to her parents by their last name?


	13. The Rescue--Hermione Marcus

An AU. Marcus Flint, a Lord at the latest ball, rescues a witch he has admired for a while. Maybe he will have to rescue her from her ignorant father's machinations again sometime?

I don't own anything related to the HP Universe...

...~~~...~~~...

Marcus lifted a brow when the minor lord grinned and pushed his daughter forward, causing her to arch and fumble her steps in her heeled dancing shoes. She recovered quickly, sending her father a wide-eyed arch look before clearing her throat and curtsying.

Marcus bowed genteelly in response.

And the daughter didn't stammer.

Usually, considering his large bulk, the ladies were overwhelmed and even frightened as he loomed over them.

"Lord Flint," the man oozed, practically vibrating with glee. "Please, let me introduce you to my daughter, Hermione Granger." And the man tugged at the girls shawl, "I would be obliged if you took her for a dance."

He finally managed to take the shawl off her shoulders, despite her fingers gripping it.

"There's quite a lot to enjoy while you dance," the man whispered sotto voce.

Marcus' eyes didn't dip lower, instead stayed on the young lady's face as mortification made her dark brown eyes shimmer with tears and her skin pale.

The man fretted, "I'm certain she'll be quiet and just let you enjoy her only assets."

A fire flared briefly in her eyes, flashing in the darkness, before she stuck up her chin.

Marcus could still see a quiver in her lip.

"Lord Granger!" a jolly voice called out, and Marcus slid his eyes to the side to spot the approaching young lord Mclaggen. "I see you've brought your beautiful daughter—she's missed the last few balls."

Lady Granger closed her eyes briefly and snapped her fan open, subtly holding it to cover her bodice and waving it slowly.

Marcus made a bow and offered his arm, escorting her quickly to the floor when she accepted. There was no way he was leaving the lady to McLaggen's advances, especially with the way her own sire had behaved.

Smoothly joining the waltz, he carefully maneuvered them so that they disappeared in the colors of ball gowns and suits. Marcus murmured discreetly, "You have missed the last two balls."

"Mother was taken ill—I stayed to aid her." Her eyes barely peeked up at him through her eyelashes.

Marcus nodded, well remembering her skill in potions and healing magic. Hermione was a witch at the school who was known to every student, despite class and year. It was made all the more remarkable because of her mundane beginnings.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Whatever for?"

Her eyes fully turned to him, just as brilliant and gold as he remembered. "The rescue."


	14. Sweet Treat--Hermione Marcus

I don't own anything you recognize and make no profit off of posting this.

EWE. Draco Malfoy, Slytherin, entices his friend Marcus Flint back to hanging out with the guys. He didn't anticipate a little matchmaking in the process.

…_.._

Draco Malfoy carefully balanced the delicate paper box in one hand and his briefcase in the other, maneuvering around the door with a skill that came from many previous trips.

Marcus looked up briefly, his head only nodding once on recognition before he bent it over his work and focused his whole attention on it.

Draco slid the box right under his nose, covering the line where Marcus was just about to put his John Hancock.

"What are these?" the familiar, low and rasping voice rolled over his ears

Drraco grinned. "These are a present—you've been working too hard and missed lunch today. Don't protest, I noticed."

Marcus simply blinked in response and slowly opened the aromatic box.

Draco was now used to how slow Marcus Flint was, having gotten over his previous assumption of his stupidity. Flint was steady, very thorough when thinking things over—because of this most people quickly outthought him and assumed him dimwitted.

But the towering man seated behind his desk, reading glasses on his nose over his dark eyes, was proving them all wrong. His thoroughness was a definite asset at this desk job, and his steady hard work was paying off.

And it was what had long time friend Draco Malfoy worried.

There was a deadline approaching, and Marcus had focused so much of his attention on his job that he had forgot one of his more constant enjoyments: good food. Draco Malfoy was just observant enough to notice, and, even more, Slytherin enough to have the right connections to tempt his slipping friend back into normality: because a day without a hungry Marcus was not normal.

Draco cleared his throat as Marcus' eyes widened when the box was fully opened.

Okay, so maybe Draco was exploiting a secret weakness, but the last two weeks of no contact and no dinners meant that he had a right to. "Greg and I were kind enough to share our favorite bakery with the boys a while back—but you failed to accept the invitation to join us."

Marcus blinked and swallowed, his cheeks hollowing.

Draco grinned and waited. And, just for the fun of it, sighed melodramatically. "Well, if you don't want it, I guess I can have them myself"—and he reached out a pale hand to snatch away a pastry.

Marcus abruptly snapped to attention, his large hand around Draco's wrist and a familiar glower on his face.

Draco bit his tongue behind his grin.

"Don't even think about it," Marcus growled out, slowly sliding the box closer to his chest and away from Draco.

The blonde laughed. "Good, enjoy the meal. And, this weekend, we were thinking of drinks with the guys. Try to join us this time."

And, just to make sure, Draco checked in on Marcus that Friday with another box of pastries.

It wasn't too surprising that their friend joined them for drinks. Draco had, after all, hinted that there would be more of those delicious pastries.

There were of course, you didn't promise something and then not deliver. It seeded doubt—and if you wanted to entice people and steer them you couldn't have them doubting you.

So Draco kept on bringing Marcus those pastries, but more often simply told him to come out with the guys where the pastries would be. This ploy worked for a while. Marcus was visibly frustrated with him, but Draco was having too much fun to stop the game now. He had to thank her the next time he saw her, for sticking with the simple design that didn't gave away the bakery name.

Maybe it wasn't fair that he had been continuously bribing Marcus with the treats, and keeping the actual bakery a secret, but Draco had never actually learned to play fair. Especially when it was all in good fun, and helping out a friend.

What? He swore that Marcus needed to focus on something else other than his job!

But Greg went and almost spoiled it, of course the lug would start talking about his favorite bakery during drinks, and mention how nice the baker was. With Marcus' attention, Greg was encouraged to talk some more—for once having an enthralled audience. Draco had to quickly intervene, but not before Marcus learned that a pretty young woman owned her own bakery and made Greg a special mix because they were friends.

And Marcus wanted in.

That man really did think mostly with his stomach.

And then it was Draco's turn to be hounded by his friend. Marcus showed up to every drinks night or lunch just so he could try and get Greg talking again or glare Draco into submission.

Draco held strong, still bringing pastries in hopes of distracting Marcus with them and keeping him busy eating instead of questioning.

Except then Hermione baked her special mix for Greg—Goyle's girlfriend had broken up with him, and she commiserated.

Marcus was even more obsessed.

Draco still didn't cave, and Greg was too morose to even think about talking too much.

And then Hermione had a bad day…and that turned into a bad week, and Draco simply had to support her because he owed her and she was worth it.

Some people would be surprised by their friendship, especially since Hermione had basically retreated into the muggle world, but she was one of the few witches he respected.

And she still put him in his place, which was amusing now that he was mature.

So he tried to be sneaky to visit her, and managed two visits, but then Marcus caught on and accosted him before he apparated and was with him for the third trip.

Draco made a face of long suffering as he gestured down the sidewalk, unable to convince his friend to leave it.

She was having a bad day.

Ignoring Draco and his glare Marcus cleared his throat as he stepped into the bakery, straightening up to look around after ducking through the door. It was cozy, warm cream colors and richly accented. And the smell! It was like the kitchen when the house elves were celebrating—full of sugar and spices and yeast.

The store was warm and the air was heavy with oils and scents.

Marcus loved it.

Quietly, he walked up to the showcase, eyeing the pretty desserts and the neat cursive of their labels. His eyes had their fill and then wandered to the back wall, taking in the display of fresh breads and buns, following that to the cooler of cakes and a wall display of awards from competitions.

Draco shuffled and peered a little into the open door of the kitchen. "Hello?" he called softly, politely.

Marcus blinked and turned to him.

"Oh!" came echoing from the back. Then a flour-dusted woman emerged, patting her hands down on her apron and checking the timer on the counter."I'm really sorry, I'm running a little behind today so—Draco!" Her frantic apology was cut off and she grinned, rushing around the island counter to give the blonde a hug.

Marcus took in the tiny woman with the full skirt and the handkerchief in her hair and fell a little more in love with the bakery.

Malfoy released the lady easily enough, holding her by her arms and looking at her sternly. "You are here far too early for my liking."

She swatted at his shoulder. "You shouldn't complain—I finally managed to perfect that recipe I was struggling with. You'll love the results. Just a moment." And she returned back to the kitchen with a swish of her skirts.

Marcus raised his eyebrow at his albino friend, a slow smirk curling his lips. "And you wanted to keep this place to yourself? Does Daphne know?"

Draco scowled. "Nonsense, she introduced us in an oblique way. And during her pregnancy this is the only baking she ever wanted."

Marcus chuffed out a laugh.

But then the little baker was backing out of the kitchen saddle doors carrying a warm tray, and the smell was enough to make both men silent.

Marcus was salivating; leaning slightly forward and watching the tasty morsel carry the treats over to the front counter.

She grinned, her nose adorably spotted with flour, and gestured to the tray she unveiled for Malfoy. She blinked at him, her smile only dimming slightly before it relit. "I'm glad to meet a friend of Draco's."

Marcus stepped forward and cleared his throat. "I believe we've met," he rumbled. "I'm Marcus Flint."

She quirked up one side of her lips—"Technically, we've never met at all. Though we did encounter each other in the same school."

Marcus growled out a chuckle, but then glanced at the tray.

Hermione laughed. "Well, it's there to try, please help yourselves. I'm not selling it until I get more opinions."

Draco was already happily munching at a bun, his quiet more telling than his delighted expression. That man never could keep his mouth shut.

So Marcus tried not to look too eager as he stole the largest bun from the platter and took a big bite.

Bliss.

It was a sweet bun, with some kind of custard concoction in the center that melted in his mouth.

Hermione laughed as Draco cleared his throat and teased her, asking to take a few home to Daphne. "She still craves your baking—this way I can earn brownie points." He grinned with a wink.

She swatted his arm, but swiftly packed a half dozen into the nondescript little boxes.

"You must have an amazing recipe collection," Marcus offered, blinking at the vast variety in her little store.

She blushed, "Actually, the only place I never follow rules or instructions is in the kitchen." She shrugged and smiled lopsidedly, clenching her fingers in her apron before clearing her throat and handing Draco his box. "Would you like to take some home with you Mr. Flint?"

Marcus blinked and a slow smile curled his lips. He would certainly like to take something sweet home with him. "I'd like that very much."

Draco gave him an amused look as Hermione packed away the rest of the tray. Marcus grinned back at his friend. Hey, Draco should be happy—now Marcus had something other than work to focus on.


End file.
